


And If the Hook Sets In

by sunfair



Category: One Direction
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfair/pseuds/sunfair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illegal underground boxing AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And If the Hook Sets In

**Author's Note:**

> I was fortunate to be paired with [tiffanykuo801](http://tiffanykuo801.livejournal.com/) for art for this fic, and she produced three lovely pieces which can be seen [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/violentfires/4555488/111769/111769_1000.jpg), [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/violentfires/4555488/112427/112427_1000.jpg), and [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/violentfires/4555488/113170/113170_1000.jpg).
> 
> There are so many people who put up with me and held my hand while I wrote this, and this fic would not exist without them. I owe a world of gratitude to [cantgetnoworse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse) for being my flawless beta even in the frantic eleventh hour. [miznarrator](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lately/pseuds/miznarrator) ever so kindly volunteered to britpick for me and provided far more context and cultural relevance than I had time to incorporate.
> 
> Other people who deserve all of my love forever for their assistance include [tinygayhearts](http://tinygayhearts.tumblr.com), who deals with my everyday insanity AND my writer-crazy; [gentlehousing](http://gentlehousing.tumblr.com/) whose ceaseless encouragement and feedback fueled me so many times when I thought I would give up; and everyone who suffered through my relentless whining on tumblr and gchat and also on my sofa.
> 
> I definitely do not know any of the people characterized here, nor do I believe any of them do or ever have fought anyone for money illegally.

Zayn paced the length of the darkened corridor, back and forth along the concrete floor, measuring his breaths by the clip of his steps. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, curled into tight fists as he listened distantly to the growing buzz of the crowd gathering in the larger room around the corner. Paul stood stoically at the far end, arms folded tight across his broad chest, watching and waiting.

When Ant finally returned, Zayn paused, searching his face.

“Well? Did you see?”

“Mhm.”

“Hench?” Zayn asked.

“Not too big,” Ant replied. “You’ll be fine.”

Zayn unzipped his hoodie to shrug it off, leaving him bare from the waist up, shaking his arms out a bit, trying to dispel his nervous tension. Ant reached for the rucksack of supplies, rummaging to find Zayn’s handwraps at the bottom. Zayn held out his left hand first, palm up, and let Ant get to work, hooking the loop around Zayn’s thumb. He wound the stretchy fabric in a deliberate pattern around Zayn’s knuckles and wrist, ducking between his fingers in quick, practiced succession.

“You good?” Ant asked, fastening the first one and moving to Zayn’s right hand to repeat the process.

Zayn curled his fingers into a fist, testing the wrap. “Yeah.”

Ant helped him into his gloves next, lacing them securely as the noise of the unseen crowd grew steadily louder. Zayn turned his head to look at Paul who nodded short and quick. Ant finished with the gloves and then brought his hands up, cupping Zayn’s cheeks and leaning in close until their foreheads touched, the usual ritual.

“Yeah?” Ant said.

Zayn nodded sharply, breathing in deep, and Ant stepped back, clapping him once on the shoulders.

The walk to the next room brought Zayn from the dim corridor into the harshness of bright overhead lights; he shielded his eyes with a forearm, trusting Paul’s hand at his elbow to guide him past the crowd and to the corner of the roped-off rectangle in the center of the room. Zayn’s eyes adjusted and he blinked rapidly, finding himself face-to-face with Danny, who quickly pushed Zayn’s mouthpiece past his lips.

“I know this bloke,” Danny said, helping Zayn duck past the ropes and up into the ring. “He’s slow on the left, but he has a wicked hook, alright?”

Zayn nodded in understanding, searching Danny’s face, his gaze skittering over the lingering purple and yellow ring that circled Danny’s eye and cheek.

“You’ve got this one,” Danny said, his eyes excited, grinning small.

Zayn nodded again, smaller this time, and tapped the end of his glove to Danny’s chest. Danny bumped Zayn’s shoulder with his own bare fist, and when he moved out of the way, Zayn got his first good look at his opponent.

He was taller, but Ant was right, not too big. It made Zayn stand up straighter anyhow as they exchanged calculating looks, the noise of the crowd swelling with the adrenaline in Zayn’s body. He twitched a little and began to pace again, sticking to his immediate corner and bouncing on his toes, knocking his gloves together as his opponent did the same.

There was no announcer, no referee, just the excitement of the crowd all around him and the blaze of the lights and his heart pounding wildly. Zayn slowly drifted toward the center of the makeshift ring with his pacing, as did his rival, until the short, grating sound of the buzzer rang, and then they quickly approached one another, tapping their right gloves flash quick before pulling their arms up in defense.

The first punch went to Zayn, taking Danny’s tip and attacking on the left, his glove connecting squarely with his opponent’s jaw. He managed to miss the first counter punch, but caught the second one on his right cheek, the impact knocking his head back. Zayn recovered quickly, shuffling fast in defensive stance, biding his time to seek out an opportunity to strike. They circled each other, calculating, tossing a few jabs and alternating attacks. The first round went quickly like this, more or less evenly matched, until the buzzer sounded in two short bursts. Zayn had barely broken a sweat as he met Danny in his corner, tugging his mouthpiece out for a drink of water. Danny’s hand curled around the back of Zayn’s neck, squeezing hard as he leaned in.

“You’re letting him set the pace. Kick it up.”

Zayn opened his mouth to argue, but Danny shoved his mouthpiece back into it, giving Zayn a pointed look. Zayn bit down, frustrated.

When the buzzer sounded for the next round, Zayn was ready. He narrowed his eyes and waited just long enough for his opponent to make the first move, dodging the attack before launching into one of his own. From there Zayn barely paused, staying on the offensive, and on more than one occasion sent his rival retreating in the defensive position. At the end of round two, he was breathing hard, winded and sweaty as he met Danny in his corner again.

Danny swiped at Zayn’s face with a towel, tipping the water bottle to his lips.

“In the bag, Malik, in the bag,” Danny said. “Keep this up and we’re going home happy.”

Zayn simply nodded, taking a few deep breaths, pulling his concentration back into focus.

His opponent began round three with an expected vengeance, managing to land a few hits while Zayn struggled to fend him off. The crowd noise swelled, and while Zayn normally tuned them out quite easily, he found himself distracted, fumbling to block another combo. His opponent wasted no time in stepping in close, landing an uppercut to Zayn’s torso, knocking him off balance, and chasing him to continue the offensive as Zayn struggled to keep up. He somehow managed to block most of the subsequent blows, growling through his clenched teeth, frustrated at how the tables turned so quickly.

Then, as if a switch flipped inside him, Zayn’s mind suddenly cleared, his senses sharpened, and the muddling shouts of the spectators faded into obscurity. His next block set him up for a counter offensive, his punch landing hard and precise, and he caught the flash of surprise in his opponent’s gaze as he reeled back, belatedly lifting a glove to block. Zayn easily worked around him, landing a second hit, then a third, keeping just close enough that his punches stuck hard and any retaliation fell short. His focus kept him from even hearing the buzzer that announced the end of the fight, only backing down when Danny hauled him off, arms snug around Zayn’s waist.

It took Zayn a moment to stop flailing, to realize it was over and he’d won, to recognize Danny’s jubilant cheering in his ear. As Zayn’s mind caught up he looked to the far corner, to where his opponent was scowling through a bloody lip, their gazes meeting for a sustained moment before Zayn looked away.

Swallowed in embraces from Ant and Danny, Zayn allowed himself to be led off, the three of them hustled away by Paul, past the noisy thrall of the crowd and back into the dark and quieter corridor.

“Nice job,” Paul muttered, the first two words he’d said to Zayn in as many weeks.

“Bloody _brilliant_ at the end there, look at you, hardly a scratch,” Danny marveled, swiping a cool towel over Zayn’s face and chest, guiding him to sit in a tall chair. His left cheek ached though, and he knew he’d have a bruise soon enough.

Ant worked quickly to undo Zayn’s gloves for him, freeing his hands from them, and then carefully unwound the wrappings. “Boss should be happy,” Ant remarked, and Zayn nodded, pulling his mouthpiece out.

“Hope so.”

The sound of the crowd gradually diminished until Zayn couldn’t hear any voices at all anymore. Part of him wanted to stick around, to wait out the tallying and the calculating, so that he could head home with his earnings, but it was always difficult to know how long any of that could take. The crowd seemed substantial, which meant settling all the wagers would potentially take hours.

Zayn’s adrenaline drained in a matter of minutes, chill and exhaustion setting in on its heels, and the prospect of lingering about in an abandoned factory for an envelope that he could retrieve after sleep and food became less and less appealing.

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly, moving slow to push his arms into his hoodie and rise to his feet.

“You sure?” Danny asked. “Want us to stick around for you?”

Zayn looked from Danny to Ant and back again. “Nah, it’s cool. I’ll settle up later.”

Paul already had his car keys in one hand, his phone in the other, tapping out a message. Zayn flipped his hood up as they filed out the back entrance, down the damp and dark alley, to Paul’s waiting car.

He fell asleep on Ant’s shoulder almost right away, only waking up when they arrived in front of their building, a squat block of flats tucked back on a short side street. Danny walked beside him to the door, helping him inside quietly. Once they entered the flat, Ant disappeared quickly into the smaller bedroom.

“Cheers,” Zayn whispered, leaving the lights off.

“Night,” Danny replied, pulling Zayn into a loose one-armed hug.

Zayn pressed close and lingered, holding on to Danny’s jacket, breathing in deep. Danny patted his back a couple of times, and Zayn sighed against his neck.

“Night,” Danny repeated, pulling back. “Breakfast tomorrow, yeah?”

Zayn didn’t reply, and Danny didn’t wait around to see if he would. The second bedroom door closed with a quiet click, leaving Zayn and his backpack in the front room with the sofa.

*

 

The surface of the restaurant table was dirty with some unidentifiable sticky substance into which Zayn barely managed to avoid resting his arm. The day was bright but overcast, and Zayn kept his sunglasses and beanie on, ordering another coffee from the waitress as he washed down a double dose of painkillers.

“What hurts?” Danny asked, his gaze firmly affixed to his copy of the Daily Star as he thumbed slowly through it.

“Everything,” Zayn said sourly. 

“Told you to ice.”

“No you didn’t, you left me on the sofa. Again.” Zayn pushed the cold remnants of his breakfast around on his plate, the fork scraping irritably.

“I always tell you to ice and you never do.”

“Yeah, well.” 

“Quit,” Danny said sharply, and reached over fast to grab Zayn’s wrist, halting the tinny scrape of the utensil on the plate.

Zayn dropped the fork and Danny released his wrist.

“You’re acting like you’ve lost,” Danny said, chiding a bit. “And like some bloke’s not gonna stroll in here in a few and hand you a fat wad of cash.”

“Shhh,” Zayn admonished, even though the restaurant was practically empty.

“Come off it. What?”

“Nothing.”

Danny didn’t push, just went back to reading his rubbish tabloid, and Zayn turned his gaze to the window, watching the occasional car roll by. His second coffee disappeared more quickly than the first, making him even more restless.

“Gonna smoke,” Zayn muttered, sliding out of the booth and walking away without looking back.

The first long drag he took dampened some of his discontentment, but he was still agitated. He half wanted to leave, but he’d miss his payment meet-up; more accurately, he wanted to leave Danny like Danny kept leaving him. The thought made Zayn bite at the inside of his cheek, teeth clamping down where the skin was already tender. 

“Malik.”

Paul’s voice jolted Zayn from his reverie, and he very nearly did injure his mouth as he flinched.

“Hi, Paul, you alright?”

“You alone?”

“Nah, Dan’s inside.”

Paul frowned. “Come sit in the car a minute.”

Zayn’s stomach fluttered a little and he hesitated; Paul was never the one to deliver payments in the first place, the Boss had specific runners for that. He also looked nervous, shoulders hunched and hands tucked deep into his pockets as he walked away. When he looked back though, he paused, waiting for Zayn to catch up. Against his instincts, Zayn extinguished his cigarette and followed.

“Get in,” Paul said, opening the passenger door, ushering Zayn inside. He moved quickly around to the driver’s side, climbing in and closing the door.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asked, shifting nervously.

Paul took a good look around the mostly empty parking lot before handing Zayn a thick envelope.

“Listen,” Paul said, his voice low, grabbing hold of Zayn’s forearm. “When the deal comes. Don’t take it.”

Zayn frowned in confusion. “Deal? What deal?”

“Just don’t take it, alright? Walk away. And never mention this, not to anyone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, though, I—”

“Goodbye, Zayn,” Paul interrupted, starting the car. “Get out.”

“What do you mean? What deal?” Zayn asked again.

“Shut up and get _out_ ,” Paul snapped.

Zayn barely had the chance to close the car door again before Paul sped off. Back inside, Danny was still pouring over football scores at the table; Zayn dropped into the seat across from him. He would have told Danny everything if Danny had just looked up. Instead, Zayn thumbed through his newly acquired envelope, placed a couple of bills on the table and nudged Danny with his foot.

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

*

The fighting – for money, anyway – was never meant to be a long-term situation. Zayn remembered clearly a time when all his fighting was about survival, when he and Danny and Ant were made to take long routes to and from their school in attempts to circumnavigate the roaming packs of troublemakers, the ones who always seemed to be waiting just to rough them up for their pocket money or their new jackets or for no reason whatsoever. Most of Zayn’s memories of getting home from school involved sprinting as fast as possible through dirty alleys, his lungs burning in his chest, while the slap of his trainers on the concrete outran pace of his heart.

Then Danny got his parents to agree to let him learn boxing, and as he trained he taught Zayn everything, until together they could stop running and stood up for themselves. It was still messy and awful and it made Zayn’s stomach turn, the crunch of the impact of his fist with someone’s face, but at least most days he made it home with his coat and his shoes and could take the path he wanted.

The opportunity to make it a lucrative hobby came later, after school was over, when the three of them moved down to London and when washing dishes in a pub for minimum wage gave Zayn new reasons to want to throw punches. 

Danny joined up first, recruited through a friend of someone he trained with, and kept it a complete secret until the day of his first real fight. Zayn had been livid; not only because it was the sketchiest thing he had ever heard, and Danny in general was meant to be the more sensible of the two, but because he’d kept it from Zayn for nearly a month and waited until the last possible moment to tell him.

With only a few hours’ notice and his lingering indecision about whether or not he would forgive Danny eventually, Zayn went along to watch the fight. It wasn’t, as Zayn had feared, completely without rules and structure. In fact, it was incredibly well organized and efficient, and if the venue hadn’t been the back building of a junkyard, Zayn would never have known it was illegal at all. Danny lost that first fight and still walked away with more than a week’s wages of what Zayn made in the pub, which made Zayn’s decision to follow him quite easy and immediate.

It had been months now of this, the summer whittled away with turning up at warehouses, abandoned factories, and seedy basements, wherever he was told to go. He never knew who he would be up against, or what exactly his take would be at the end of the night. Zayn wasn’t even certain who the ultimate ringleaders were or how they made it all work, how they managed to draw crowds but not the attention of the authorities. It was a slick undertaking with too many moving pieces, and Zayn figured the less he knew, the better. 

Some weeks both of them would have to fight, and then others neither of them did, with no discernible pattern. Arrangements were made through texts from numbers that only worked for a day or so, and then the car would arrive to retrieve them at the designated time. Zayn grew accustomed to sleeping away most of the day, and then waking to find out whether or not he or Danny would be fighting that weekend.

The one constant throughout was Paul. Paul picked them up and took them where they needed to go, and got them back home afterward. He never said much, and sometimes nothing at all, but between all of the variables and unknowns, Zayn appreciated Paul’s unwavering presence in the process.

*

Danny packed another bowl, taking his time, pressing the bud into the pipe over and over. Zayn stared, his focus softening, his thoughts returning again and again to Paul’s cryptic words outside the restaurant. He and Danny were alone in the flat; Ant had gone off to meet his girl. The late afternoon sun made a valiant effort to penetrate the weaker spots in the drawn curtains, little shafts of light sneaking through at the edges and the seams, illuminating the swirling dust in the room between the sofa and the stereo. The sheets Zayn had slept on were tangled now, cushions pushed askew, his pillow abandoned on the floor.

Danny sparked up his lighter and took the first hit, his cheeks narrowing as he inhaled, throat twitching slightly. As he passed the pipe, Zayn blinked, transfixed on the sharp angles of Danny’s features, the slant of his jaw and the tension in the line of his lips. They were sat side by side, nearly touching but not quite, and Zayn shifted slightly as he took the pipe from Danny’s hands, until their knees and shoulders met.

The fact Danny didn’t immediately pull away could probably be attributed to the weed; Zayn watched his eyes drift shut as he exhaled, the smoke falling slowly out of his mouth, rising over the soft curl of his lips. Zayn brought the pipe up to his own mouth, taking a hit, keeping his gaze on Danny, whose eyes remained shut.

Zayn was tempted, as he held his breath, to lean over and press his mouth against Danny’s, to exhale into it and hope he’d accept it willingly like he used to long ago. He couldn’t quite muster the courage though, the prospect seeming too real in the moment, the distance between them too burdensome. His thoughts danced from past to present, from memory to the moment, and his high was not quite reaching the depths of his discontentment.

All at once Zayn exhaled, tipping his chin up a little. “We should get out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna go anywhere,” Danny said, making a face and taking the pipe back again.

“No, I mean—” Zayn began, the tendrils of his thoughts slipping quickly. “Out of the—the fights and all that.”

Danny blinked at him, his brow twitching. “Really? You want out?”

Zayn shrugged. “Maybe. Can’t do it forever, like.”

“We can’t quit now though,” Danny said, definitive, and Zayn found that he didn’t have the energy to argue.

Danny held his gaze, long enough to send Zayn’s thoughts skittering around again, recalling secrets to which they didn’t dare put names. Zayn thought that Danny moved a tiny bit closer, but he wasn’t so high as to consider that he might have imagined it. When he tilted his chin a little though, Danny didn’t move, and spurred on by bravery, Zayn leaned in even further.

Danny definitely moved then, pulling back just a fraction, just enough to send a spark of self-doubt ricocheting through Zayn, causing him to turn away. Then Danny’s hand was on his wrist, closing tight, and Zayn met his gaze again, just before Danny’s mouth crashed awkwardly against his own.

Danny pulled first at Zayn’s arm, then at his shirt, shifting to recline against the sofa, scrambling to tug Zayn with him.

Zayn tried to recalibrate quickly, to take his time with kissing, settling over Danny and hoping the weed had done enough to make him pliant and languid. Danny didn’t tolerate too much of it though, a few rough scrapes of his teeth at Zayn’s lower lip, before he curled his hand in Zayn’s hair, pushing insistently, his intention unmistakable. 

Zayn sighed, shifting down and watching as Danny extracted himself from his sweatpants, his cock flushed and thick where it sat between the sharp rise of his hips. He held it in his hand and guided Zayn’s head toward it, needlessly, because Zayn was already folding himself over, parting his lips wide to take Danny in.

They had gone on like this for quite some time, a few months maybe; drunk or stoned or both, Zayn’s hand or mouth on Danny’s cock, the two of them still as clothed as they could be. There was no prologue anymore, no reciprocation, and Zayn was beginning to wonder exactly how fucked up it made him that he still wanted it so badly, that he would take whatever Danny would give him, the few and far between times when Danny allowed it.

Zayn learned that he had to be careful, always careful not to break the spell that enclosed them, with words or sustained looks or sounds that were more than muffled. He kept a tight reign on any direct expression of enthusiasm or indication of his own pleasure, his hands clenched with the effort of holding back while he moved his mouth over Danny’s length, slick and fast and deliberate.

Danny held back a groan, his hand still fisted tight in Zayn’s hair, tugging painfully. Zayn hollowed his cheeks and took him deeper, squeezing his eyes shut, letting Danny thrust hard into his mouth until he came, swallowing it all away.

*

“So I’m up tomorrow.”

Danny’s declaration came paired with a right hook, and Zayn nearly failed to block it, distracted. They were alone in the sparring ring of the fitness center and had been for the better part of an hour. Zayn had just started to think about a takeaway from the curry house on the way home, hoping perhaps that Danny might be up for a quiet night in.

“Yeah? Were you planning on telling me, or?” Zayn punctuated his dangling question with a couple of sharp jabs, missing by a mile.

“Telling you now, aren’t I?”

Zayn frowned, dropping his defensive stance, lowering his arms. Danny moved to strike but withdrew the punch at the last second, leaving Zayn disappointed in the lack of impact.

“What?” Danny continued to bounce on his feet a little, dancing around in front of Zayn, and then went still.

Zayn didn’t know how to respond, averting his gaze. After a few tension-filled days in which Danny had mostly avoided him, Zayn had accepted the invitation to practice as an armistice of sorts. The realization that it was merely a necessity on Danny’s part made Zayn’s stomach twist sharply with resentment and doubt, his throat closing up on any response.

“C’mon, yeah?” Danny tried, crowding into Zayn’s space, nudging at him a little. “Five more minutes.”

“No, leave it,” Zayn said, immediately annoyed at how thin and weak his voice sounded, shuffling backward.

He turned away, ignoring Danny’s protests, pulling his practice gloves off as he stepped toward the edge of the ring to climb out. Danny muttered something at his back that Zayn was glad he didn’t catch.

Zayn waited for Danny to turn up all evening. He sat at the counter in the window of the curry house and ate slowly, expecting to see him stroll by, to show up and notice Zayn sat there watching. When he went home and Danny still wasn’t there, he put the telly and the kettle on and divided his attention between the door and his phone, the tea going cold. Hours later, Zayn climbed defeated into bed, curling on his side to face the empty half, and pretended not to hear the sounds of Ant and his girlfriend drifting in from the next room.

He wondered what Danny would say if Zayn brought someone back to the flat. He worried most that Danny wouldn’t actually mind one bit.

*

Watching a match from the sidelines was something Zayn hadn’t done in a while; he hung back a few rows, sticking to the shadows, letting the rowdier spectators jostle for the better vantage points with their drinks and their wager slips. He also tried to stay out of Danny’s line of sight, even though Ant knew he was there, so Zayn was fairly sure Danny knew as well. He didn’t want Danny to see him though; he wanted to be missed.

Danny’s opponent for the evening was small—shorter than Zayn, but filled out a little more, maybe. Aside from the slight shadow of scruff at his chin his face was smooth and almost radiant, his cheekbones defined and his blue eyes narrow and piercing. His light brown hair fell in a neat swoop over his forehead and his skin bore the bronzed remnants of summer. He was too pretty, Zayn thought, for fighting. He looked more suited to lying on a beach somewhere in Spain or the south of France, not stood on a factory floor in east London waiting to fight. Looking from him back to Danny, it was difficult to imagine how Danny could lose this one.

Zayn soon found out that he didn’t have to imagine for very long. It was barely halfway through the first round when Danny began to lose the advantage, most of his opponent’s attacks landing hard and fast, direct hits to Danny’s face and torso. Zayn frowned in confusion as the fight progressed; Danny was really having an off night. The pretty bloke was decent, but Zayn knew Danny had it in him to do better. He had to bite his tongue to keep from joining in on the shouts from the crowd, most of them jeering, bewildered at the way in which the fight was unfolding.

Zayn began to gnaw on the side of his thumbnail, shaking his head sadly as time and time again Danny failed to land his attacks and failed to block the ones coming at him. He glanced over to where Anthony was standing, leaning casually against the ropes, his expression flat and unaffected. None of it made sense at all.

Moving a little closer to the edge of the ring, Zayn watched as Danny managed to get a couple of hits in, then inexplicably fumbled with blocking the next punch. The side of his mouth was swollen, and he had an angry red mark at the opposite eye, and Zayn clenched his jaw in frustration. Then, in a sliver of a second, Zayn was sure he saw it—the clear opportunity to strike, and Danny twitching to keep from taking it. Judging by the crescendo of booing from the crowd, Zayn wasn’t the only one who noticed. Anthony remained expressionless, and realization dawned on Zayn like a cold blast of air through a window.

“You fucker,” he muttered to himself, clenching his teeth and his fists so tightly they ached.

He wanted to yell, he wanted to climb into the ring and hit Danny himself, and then Anthony, too. Instead, Zayn turned and walked right out of the building without looking back.

It was hours before Danny and Anthony returned to the flat, the key clicking softly in the lock like they hoped Zayn would be asleep. Their voices were hushed but excited as they entered, going quiet when they found Zayn sat on the sofa.

“You missed a good fight, bro,” Danny said brightly, and Anthony’s expression shifted, his gaze locking with Zayn’s.

“I was there, actually.”

Zayn kept his arms folded and stayed sat on the sofa as the silence and the tension stretched. Anthony eventually looked down and retreated tentatively toward his bedroom.

“Yeah? Well. Win some lose some,” Danny tried, making no effort to move. The side of his mouth and his eye were still raised, more swollen now than earlier.

“Yeah, I guess,” Zayn replied.

“What’s your problem, then?” Danny asked, his lip curling slightly.

Zayn shrugged. “Don’t have one. Glad I didn’t bet on you though, innit.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed quickly, his voice rising. “You gonna lecture me now, is that it?”

“No—” Zayn sat forward, uncrossing his arms.

“Moral high ground and all that bollocks?”

“No, I don’t give a fuck—”

“Spare me your fucking judgment then,” Danny sneered.

“I’m not judging you!” Zayn exploded, finally rising to his feet. “But you don’t know who these people are, or, or what they’re capable of, why would you agree to—”

“It’s a fucking _game_ ,” Danny shouted back, exasperated. “All they want is a good show, so what? Do you know how much bank I made tonight, do you have any fucking clue?”

Zayn’s eyes widened, his heart thudding hard and uncomfortably in his chest. “Do you think whoever lost all that cash isn’t gonna come looking for it when they find out what it is you’ve done?”

Danny’s brow twitched, flash quick, but enough for Zayn to notice, to know Danny had heard him.

“You’re fucking paranoid, you are.”

Zayn folded his arms again, staying quiet, holding Danny’s gaze. Danny made no motions to retreat.

“No one’s coming after me,” he said finally, but in a way that Zayn knew was meant to convince himself more than Zayn.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

Zayn bit back a response, digging in the pocket of his hoodie for his cigarettes. He dropped down to sit on the sofa again, lighting up as Danny finally moved from the door, toward the bedroom.

“Ant and I are going home for a few days,” Danny said over his shoulder.

Zayn took a second drag on his smoke, longer and deeper, holding it in until Danny disappeared through the bedroom door.

*

Being alone in the flat made Zayn restless and uneasy; he wanted to go somewhere but had nowhere to be, and when he eventually stepped out for milk, more smokes and a takeaway all he wanted was to get back inside again. He kept the stereo or the telly on at all times, pushing out the suffocating silence while the hours passed.

When the text arrived informing him of his fight the following evening, Zayn hesitated in responding. Danny and Ant were both still away and the idea of doing a fight without them, despite the tenuousness of their friendship at the moment, seemed treacherous. For the first time since he arrived in London and attempted to make a life for himself, Zayn felt truly detached and boundless. 

If Paul had an opinion on Zayn’s solitude as Zayn climbed into the car, he didn’t voice it. The ride was quiet, punctuated only by the low volume and mindless chattering of the talk radio. Zayn was grateful, once they arrived at the determined venue—the basement of an old empty storefront this time—that he didn’t have to ask Paul to help him with his wraps and his gloves. Paul just stepped right in and did them, every bit as practiced and precisely as Anthony ever had.

“Are they not coming?” Paul asked, glancing at Zayn’s face, winding the stretchy fabric around and around Zayn’s hand.

“Don’t think so, no.”

“You alright?”

Zayn bit his lower lip for a second. “Yeah, fine.”

Paul went quiet again, and said nothing else to Zayn until the moment he led him to the ring, his grip on Zayn’s elbow growing tighter to capture his attention.

“Good luck, kid.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow, nodded at Paul and climbed alone over the ropes and into his corner. A few moments later, to much cheering from the crowd, Zayn got his first good look at his competition.

He was only a little taller, but his shoulders were broader, the muscles around them more defined. His hair was cut short and close, the rich brown color matching his eyes and the thick lines of his eyebrows. He glanced over at Zayn, cursory, then took a second look, lingering. Zayn dropped his gaze for a moment, then looked up again, taking in the span of his chest, the swell of his biceps, and the way his hips tapered to disappear into the waistband of his boxing shorts. Zayn’s stomach fluttered, familiar but uncomfortably, his pulse beating a hard tempo in his ears. He turned around, facing his corner, going through the motions of some simple shoulder stretches as he felt his face grow warmer.

It was like he was thirteen again, changing in the boys’ locker rooms after phys ed, fighting to hide the flush that crept from his cheeks down the back of his neck. Stealing glances of naked skin, the desire to touch, certain in every moment that he would be caught.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he repeated to himself in his mind, like he used to back then, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, forcing himself to refocus. He was going to fight, he had to fight, and he wanted to win.

As they approached one another in the center of the ring, Zayn bit down on his mouthpiece, determined, avoiding everything but the most minimal of eye contact. His gaze instead catalogued the generous swell of his rival’s pink lower lip, the faint smudge of a birthmark at his throat, and as their gloves tapped lightly, the four parallel arrows in thick ink on his right forearm.

The sound of the buzzer had barely finished and Zayn was already defending an attack, ducking quickly and sidestepping to shuffle away from hard throws on both sides, deflecting them with his gloves. His opportunity to counter evaded him, was stolen from him by the accelerated and constant offensive of his opponent. Zayn had grown accustomed to generally being the faster competitor if not the stronger one, but in this match he quickly realized he would be neither. In a matter of moments his sharpness was worn down, and the jabs and punches launched at him began to hit their intended targets, forcing his retreat.

Zayn stuck it out, pulling himself back into the fray each time, seeking rare opportunities to throw a punch between defending, managing to find a window here and there. His arms were shorter though, a distinct disadvantage, and for each desperate swing he took, he endured a barrage of successive retaliatory hits, to his face and head and torso. His skin bloomed with heat, throbbing in pain, more so in the brief interlude between the rounds, when he took to his corner to catch his breath. Paul appeared briefly with water and a towel for him, but said nothing.

Hauling himself up to face the second round brought a sharp intake of breath; sweat stinging in his eyes as he swiped at them with his forearm. This time Zayn looked right at his opponent as they waited for the buzzer with arms up in defense, meeting his gaze full on, trying for his best cold glare. The look he got in return was nothing of the sort; just a deeply creased brow and a soft, fixed stare.

Zayn blinked rapidly a few times, springing into action when the buzzer sounded, stepping in quick and striking fast, only to be blocked or deflected on each attempt. When the next attack came at him, it hit hard, right below Zayn’s left eye as he failed to turn out of the trajectory. Immediately afterward he took a blow to the chin, powerful enough to send him staggering back, off-balance and reeling from the sheer force of it. His jaw aching and his ears ringing, Zayn righted himself, fending off punch after punch.

Though it was only a matter of minutes, the buzzer signaling the end of the second round didn’t seem to arrive for ages. Zayn curled in on himself at the sound of it, shoulders hunched and shuffling in the vague direction of his corner, unsteady on his feet. He looked down, watching big bright drops of blood fall rapidly from his face to the floor, until the white flash of a towel appeared, and Zayn closed his eyes and let Paul clean him up.

“You don’t have to finish,” Paul said resolutely, leaning in close. “You could forfeit.”

Zayn knew that already, the thought having entered his mind numerous times. He’d never done that though; if he couldn’t win, he sure as hell wasn’t going to quit. Paul assisted him with one final drink of water, and Zayn shook his head in reply.

As he approached the center of the ring for the final round, Zayn attempted to stand taller, to ignore how his entire middle ached sharply with each breath, how the echo of the blows to his face and shoulders pulsed relentlessly with constant pain. His opponent approached him slowly, looking bewildered, his hands down at his sides. Zayn brought his gloves up to defensive position, waiting for the signal to begin, and the crowd cheered loudly.

For the first few seconds, there seemed to be an unspoken suspension—Zayn waited in vain for the attack, trying his best to calculate and anticipate and keep his guard up—but his opponent just circled slowly, mirroring, following along as Zayn shuffled so that they remained face to face. Their gazes met and there was still something repentant in the look Zayn was given, deep worry etched into the creases at his brow.

Finally Zayn took an opportunity to launch a strike, surprised when it landed almost squarely on the left cheek. The retaliatory blow was massive and staggering, a hard, sharp hit that landed directly in the center of his face, throwing Zayn back a step and a half.

The collective swell of surprise from the crowd barely registered; Zayn’s vision blurred as his nose and mouth filled with the warm, metallic rush of blood. He spit out his mouthpiece so he could breathe, crouching in full defensive stance, choking and gasping for air. His vision was just beginning to correct itself when he was hustled away to his corner, Paul’s embrace practically lifting him under his arms.

“You’re done,” Paul barked as Zayn dropped onto his seat, wincing.

“No.” Zayn’s tongue was slow in his mouth, thick and hindered, but he met Paul’s stern gaze without hesitation. “No.”

The noise of the crowd grew again, a mixture of cheering and booing, and as Zayn held a towel to his nose, he looked across to the opposite corner, to where his opponent sat. His arms were folded, his head tucked down, gaze on the floor; someone was stood beside him, leaning over with a hand on his shoulder to talk into his ear.

Zayn rose to his feet again, and again the noise from the spectators changed, growing impossibly louder. Across the ring his opponent lifted his head, his expression one of pure disbelief. Zayn dropped his bloody towel aside, shrugged off Paul’s grip on his shoulder, and stepped again toward the center.

There was a moment when Zayn thought his rival would refuse get up to meet him; he bowed his head again and hunched over, hiding his face on his forearm, paused there. Then suddenly he was up, determined, striding quickly toward Zayn, his brow knit tightly. The round was technically still going, so Zayn closed the last gap between them, stepping in close to aim for his head with a cross punch. His opponent slipped quickly, rotating his hips, and Zayn’s punch barely grazed him. Zayn caught a hard uppercut to his torso, and fired one right back, both of them crowding in and vying for a better position, until they ended up locked together, almost wrestling, unable to find any leverage.

Zayn stumbled backward, pushed away suddenly by his opponent, taking another freight train hit to his chin. His balance faltered as he struggled to find his footing, swaying perilously. His vision began to swim again, and closing his eyes to try to remedy that only made the room spin faster. He reached out with one arm, toward nothing, and then he was weightless, falling, crashing to the floor of the ring first onto his hip, and then collapsing as silence and darkness overtook him.

*

Zayn remembered flashes, like brief moving pictures, glimpses of Paul’s face and muted, distorted voices, but he only really regained consciousness in the back of Paul’s moving car. Spread across the seat on his back, his face turned up to the window, his eyes struggled to follow the repetitive flashes of passing streetlights while the road rumbled beneath him.

He only just managed to walk into his flat, leaning heavily on Paul for support, trembling in the cold night air. His gloves were off and his hoodie was on, the front of it darkened and sticky with his own blood. Paul struggled with the key in the lock, keeping a solid hold of Zayn at the same time. Before he could manage to work the door open, it swung inward, and Zayn slowly lifted his gaze to Anthony’s face.

“Fucking hell,” Anthony muttered, his voice just above a whisper. “Dan!” he shouted, and then again as he helped Paul usher Zayn inside. “Danny!”

Zayn let his eyes drift shut, let himself be led through the flat to the bathroom, and let the other three toss around explanations and accusations and blame, raising their voices in anger and worry. Danny ordered Paul out and barked commands at Anthony about towels and ice and bandages, until everything was bright and quiet and Zayn was leaning back against the sink, hands braced at the edge of the countertop, with Danny stood right in front of him.

“Jesus,” Danny whispered, getting a good look at Zayn’s face, tilting his chin up gently to inspect it.

Zayn let his gaze linger on Danny’s mouth and chin, not quite daring to meet his eyes. His throat closed a little, his grip on the counter making his hands ache. Danny was wearing a new hoodie and he’d gotten a haircut while he was away and Zayn had missed him, much more than he’d realized.

“’M alright,” Zayn mumbled.

Danny leaned in even closer, their knees bumping, and Zayn closed his eyes, lips parted slightly and waiting, holding himself perfectly still until his arms began to quiver. Through the pain and the swelling on his cheek, he could feel the soft exhale of Danny’s breath on his skin, and he twitched slightly, turning his face toward it. Danny only reached up behind Zayn’s head though, opening the mirrored cabinet, rummaging through the medication bottles.

“Here,” he said, pulling one down, opening the lid and shaking two small pills out into his palm. “Take these, they’ll help.”

Zayn held his hand out, still trembling slightly, and Danny dropped the pills into it. As Danny reached behind him again to fill a cup with water, Zayn’s eyes prickled, brimming with tears.

He washed down the meds, shifting his weight a little, as Danny busied himself with finding the cotton wool and antiseptic. Zayn stood still while Danny worked to clean him up, resolutely refusing to flinch at the sharp sting of his wounds. His breath hitched slightly though causing his tears to hang in his lower lashes before quickly spilling over.

“Sorry,” Danny murmured reflexively, and while the effects of the prescription painkillers began to set in, bringing with them the welcome hum of numbness, Zayn wondered fleetingly if it were possible for a person to die from irony.

Anthony brought ice, eventually, having left the flat and returned before Zayn had even noticed he was gone. He brought bandages too, long wide strips that Danny stretched securely around Zayn’s bare chest and ribcage, the constriction augmenting his discomfort at first before easing it slightly.

When he finished, Danny retrieved a clean hoodie, helping Zayn carefully thread his arms into it, zipping him up.

“Cheers,” Zayn said quietly, the pills making his head swim a little, swaying slightly on his feet.

Danny swallowed tightly, taking a half step back and folding his arms, and Zayn resisted the overwhelming need he felt to reach out and pull him in again.

“Keep that ice on your face. Especially your left side.”

Zayn nodded slightly, averting his gaze.

“You can take the bed, I’ll have the sofa.”

“Cheers,” Zayn said hollowly, watching Danny walk away.

*

The following handful of days passed in a pharmaceutical haze, in cycles of pain that pulled Zayn from sleep and strong drugs that unwillingly sent him back again. His left eye swelled shut and even breathing presented a constant challenge, his lungs expanding involuntarily against his battered and bruising ribs. The bedroom stayed dark and quiet, save the brief interruptions from Danny or Anthony to check up on him. Cups of half-finished tea collected on the bedside table, cluttering the surface alongside plates of cold, barely nibbled toast. 

When he grew restless and bored of shuffling between the bathroom and the bed, and when the disturbing dreams brought on by the painkillers progressed to the point where he would rather stay awake, Zayn finally decided to leave the flat. He woke up alone in late afternoon and stood under the shower for longer than necessary, but skipped the ritual of shaving, even though he hadn’t so much as looked at a razor in several days. Getting dressed took twice as long as it should have, but he managed on his own, tucking his hair into a beanie instead of making any attempt to style it. The cut above his eye and on the bridge of his nose were beginning to look a little better, but his lip and his chin and his cheek had turned bright purple, with the sallow hint of yellow beneath.

The outside air was a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness and gloom of the cloistered bedroom in the flat. Zayn walked slowly, hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers idly playing with his keys. As he made his way across the neighborhood, the streetlights flickered on, offsetting the disappearing autumn sun.

With no real agenda or destination, he wandered one way for a while, then another, taking familiar streets and doubling back again, lighting a cigarette. His middle still ached sharply when he breathed too deep, and the surge of nicotine after a prolonged absence caused his fingertips to quickly go numb. He abandoned the cigarette halfway through it, discarding it into the gutter.

Zayn paused when he approached the local market; living on tea and toast and an occasional bowl of soup for the previous few days made the idea of an actual meal seem appealing. He grabbed a small shopping basket as he entered, carrying it over toward the produce, craving sustenance that didn’t come from a tin.

The longer he spent wandering the small shop, the more he collected; fruit as well as bags of crisps, cans of cider, a box of sugary cereal. He lingered in the first aid section, looking carefully over the selection of bandages and wraps, choosing several kinds that he needed, then moving on to the painkillers, grabbing several bottles of those as well.

Zayn had just turned to make his way to the front, holding his basket on his arm, when he looked up to find the aisle mostly blocked by another customer who stood there, unmoving. He was staring directly at Zayn, holding a few groceries in his hands. Zayn’s automatic _pardon me_ died in his throat when recognition rocketed through him, in the short hair and strong brow and unmistakable expression of surprise.

“Oh wow, it _is_ you,” he said to Zayn in hushed astonishment, his dark eyes going wide.

Zayn inhaled to respond, his immediate instinct one of denial, of wanting to lie to escape and avoid. But he couldn’t quite manage to tear his gaze away or find the words quickly enough, his tongue temporarily stuck and the moment too surreal.

“Erm. Hi. Pardon me,” Zayn said coldly, bristling, moving to slip past him.

“Wait—hang on—are you okay?” 

The question followed Zayn to the end of the aisle and he resolutely ignored it.

“Look, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”

Zayn stopped at that, half turning again, watching as the contents of his shopping basket were blatantly scrutinized as he was approached.

“I just—I’ve been worried, y’know?”

“You’ve not,” Zayn replied, incredulous. “You don’t even know me, mate.”

“I have been though, I—oh. Right, sorry, hi. Liam. Liam Payne.”

Zayn watched as Liam awkwardly shifted the bananas and biscuits and carton of milk in his arms so that he could extend his hand, offering it. Zayn hesitated almost too long before reaching to take it, squeezing lightly in greeting.

“Zayn.”

“Hi, Zayn. Are you alright?”

“Course I am,” Zayn said, quickly dropping his hand away.

“Right.” Liam glanced at Zayn’s shopping again, his eyes flickering over it. “I, um. I won’t keep you, then. I’m really glad you’re okay, though.”

Zayn lingered, feeling awkward, but unsure how to respond. He looked down then back up again, glancing once more over Liam’s face.

“Cheers,” Zayn said finally, walking away in the direction of the cashiers.

He had barely placed his basket onto the counter, starting to unload the contents, when Liam appeared beside him again, placing his milk and bananas and biscuits amongst Zayn’s items.

“Listen,” he began as Zayn stared at him in confusion. “Let me get your things here, yeah? It’s the very least I could do since—you know. I’m going to pay for his things,” Liam informed the cashier, already pulling his wallet from his hoodie.

“You don’t have to do that,” Zayn said, but without any real conviction.

“I know, but I will do,” Liam replied with certainty.

Zayn didn’t argue any further, just waited for the cashier to finish and to give Liam his change.

“Thanks, yeah?” Zayn said, bag in hand, as he stepped out of the shop behind Liam, coming to a stop just beside the door. Liam paused there too and tucked his free hand away into his pocket.

“No worries, really. Are you absolutely sure you’re alright?”

“Like I said, yeah, I’m good.”

“Because if you do need anything—I mean, like. Medically. I know someone who can, you know. Do that sort of thing.”

“So you know—a doctor?” Zayn asked, making his best effort not to sound patronizing or sarcastic.

“Well, he’s more of a clinical nurse really, but if you need anything, yeah.”

Liam’s sincerity threw Zayn off, making him fidget a little, standing there self-consciously with his bag of shopping. He reached for his pack of cigarettes, extracting one and lighting up.

“Cheers, but. I think I can manage.”

“Alright, then.”

As they stood there on the pavement, Zayn let his gaze flicker up to meet Liam’s again, his eyes darker now in the shadows of early evening. Zayn wanted to go but walking away seemed abrupt, no matter what combination of departing words he assembled in his head. Luckily, Liam spared him the trouble.

“It was good to meet—to see you again,” Liam blundered, all awkward politeness.

“Yeah, goodnight, thanks again.” Zayn nodded, seizing the opportunity to turn and go; he took a long drag as he stepped away, the end of his cigarette glowing brightly.

“Take care,” Liam called after him, and Zayn didn’t turn around.

Before he reached the end of the street, however, he regretted not asking if Liam lived nearby, or how long he’d been fighting, and how he got involved. It had been so long since he’d had an actual conversation, he wasn’t sure he remembered how to do it. Zayn’s feet continued on, forward to return him to his flat and away from the market. His thoughts spun out with imagined extensions to their talk, scenarios in which they remained standing there, chatting easily, and in all of them Zayn wasn’t nervous or awkward at all.

*

The location of Danny’s next fight was a derelict industrial building, within which the heating worked only erratically. Zayn kept his coat on, his hands tucked up into the sleeves. He waited until it had started, watched for a moment, and then sidled over to where Paul was stood. Zayn shifted his weight a little as he stood beside him, folding his arms tightly. Paul was lost in looking at his phone and Zayn waited a moment before leaning in to speak.

“Say I wanted to find out, like. About a certain person who fights.”

“Why would you need to do that?” Paul muttered, distracted, tapping out a message into his phone.

“Just for like. Informational purposes.”

Paul looked up at that, narrowing his eyes a bit at Zayn. “What are you wanting to know and why?”

Zayn averted his gaze, shrugging small. “Nothin’, forget it.”

Paul resumed his typing, his phone buzzing near constantly in his hands. Zayn gnawed on the edge of his thumbnail, and glanced over every few seconds, waiting for a pause in Paul’s continual messaging.

“What if, like, I just wanna see him fight again or something?”

“Who?”

Zayn stalled, pretending to pay attention to the spectacle of the fight for a moment, then gestured vaguely at the crowd. “Like, how do all of these people find out? How do they know where to show up?”

The tone of Paul’s voice dropped, going serious. “What are you playing at?”

Zayn went still as Paul brought an arm up behind him and curled a hand at Zayn’s shoulder; it was a benign enough gesture not to garner unwanted attention within the crowd of people, but his fingers pinched hard at the juncture of Zayn’s neck, sharp and unyielding even through his coat.

“I just wondered, that’s all.”

“Someone bothering you? Making you ask questions?”

“No, not at all.”

“You after somebody, then? Scores to settle?”

“No,” Zayn replied insistently. “It’s nothing like that, I swear. Forget it, all right? Doesn’t matter.”

Zayn shrugged out of Paul’s grasp as the round ended, making his way back to the ring to give Danny some encouragement.

After the fight ended and Danny had won, they all hung around and waited for the payout, chatting idly and smoking in the back alley to pass the time. There was a dim light above the back door, with a few flickering moths swarming around it. Zayn was tired but restless, leaning against the brick building, flicking ash at his feet and leaving his thoughts to wander.

He’d returned to the market twice already, lingering an inordinate amount of time for someone who was only after more cigarettes and on the second trip, an Aero bar. He had no idea what had possessed him to believe Liam would just turn up again, or what Zayn would have said to him if he hypothetically had. It was all a long shot and Zayn had basically lost.

Danny’s voice pulled Zayn from his reverie, causing him to straighten himself taller, rubbing at his eyes a little.

“You still with us?”

Danny grinned a little from under the oval of his hood and reached for Zayn’s forgotten cigarette, taking it carefully, his fingers sliding against Zayn’s.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn replied, his voice raspy, smiling small in return, watching as Danny took a drag. “Just tired I s’pose.”

He glanced up, past Danny, to find Anthony had gone inside again and the two of them were alone.

“When we get back,” Danny began, pausing to exhale and lifting the cigarette to Zayn’s mouth, tucking it between his lips, fingers brushing against them, “we should smoke a bowl.”

Danny let his fingers linger, brushing lightly as he drew them away, holding Zayn’s gaze. Zayn brought his own hand up to chase the ghost of the touch as he inhaled, fingers pinching at his cigarette.

At that moment Anthony reappeared through the door, calling them inside. As Danny and Zayn followed him, they passed Paul in the corridor, and as Zayn walked by, Paul reached out and tucked a hand at Zayn’s elbow to delay him.

“Gimme a name,” Paul said, low and quick.

It took Zayn a moment to process, blinking up at Paul as he paused.

“Liam,” Zayn said finally. “Liam Payne.”

Paul released his arm and nodded once, and as Zayn turned to catch up to the others, he grinned to himself, small and secret.

Much later, when Danny had him pressed face down into the mattress, held tight and panting wet and hot against the back of Zayn’s neck, Zayn’s hips rutting desperately against the tousled bed sheets, he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tightly so he didn’t repeat himself.

*

The text arrived from an unknown number, just an address and a time, giving Zayn a little more than two hours’ notice. He’d been sprawled on the sofa for hours, he and Danny and Anthony, rotating turns with a new football video game, lining up cans of empty lagers on the sofa table. Zayn didn’t feel very drunk but he wouldn’t exactly consider himself sober, either.

His vague excuses about leaving were unmet with argument for the most part, and he navigated his way alone to the revealed destination on the night bus. It was different, attending as a mere spectator, handing over twenty quid at the door—another basement, a narrow flight of concrete steps leading downward, everything dimly lit except for the ring. There were a few faces in the crowd that he recognized as the room began to fill up, but Zayn stayed in the back by the wall, well into the shadows, tucked his hands in his pockets and waited for the fight to begin. 

The moment that Liam appeared, maneuvering through the crowd to climb into the ring, Zayn stood on his toes, craning to try to get a better look. The crowd cheered and Zayn wanted to also, the way his heart rate soared, sending adrenaline rocketing through his system. Liam appeared unaffected by the reaction he evoked, ignoring it in favor of lowering himself into his seat. He sipped at his water and listened and nodded at the directives being given to him by a bloke with an impressive sweep of a fringe. He looked oddly familiar; something in Zayn’s memory snagged briefly and left a tiny unraveled thread for Zayn to worry at for the rest of the night.

From an outside perspective it was immediately apparent to Zayn how skilled Liam was at boxing; he clearly had been properly trained and for quite some time. The match was more equal than his own had been, but Liam still managed to maintain his advantage and wear his opponent down in a methodical, systematic way, making the process seem almost effortless. Liam’s win wasn’t easy, but it was expected, and Zayn watched as he was led away afterward, through the crowd and out of sight.

It was only at that moment when Zayn realized he didn’t have a plan beyond showing up and watching. He hadn’t seen anyone he recognized who was working and he definitely hadn’t seen Paul. He knew he wouldn’t be able to just wander after Liam and the rest of them, especially since no one knew who he was. Zayn was in the middle of considering his options when an extremely large and intimidating man came through, strongly encouraging stragglers to settle their wagers and _go the fuck home_.

Outside the building, people dispersed rapidly, and Zayn lingered briefly before deciding to take a walk around to the back to see what he could find. There was no back door that he could locate, however; no alley or side street that revealed any other way to get in. He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to hang around; he also wasn’t sure how long he really wanted to. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, it was late, and the bus to take him back ran only occasionally at that hour. As much as it disappointed him to admit it, he simply was not going to have the chance to speak to Liam again on that night.

*

Paul returned to chat with him a few days later, turning up uncharacteristically just before ten in the morning. Zayn stumbled to the door to let him in, and then returned to the sofa, dropping onto it heavily and reaching for his cigarettes. Paul didn’t sit, but stood there with his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“Boss wants to know when you’re back in.”

Zayn lit his cigarette before answering. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this conversation had been coming; his injuries were all healed up now, but he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.

“What if I’m not?”

Paul shrugged a little, glancing around. “You want out, you’re out, if you’re square. But that’s a one way street.”

“If I’m square?”

“If you don’t owe anything.”

“How do I know if I owe something?”

“If you did, you’d know it, kid,” Paul said kindly. “You done, then?”

Zayn considered for a moment, his brain still sleep-fuzzy and struggling for coherency. The prospect of quickly finding another avenue of work that was equally as lucrative was slim. He tapped the end of his cigarette filter against the edge of his lip as he weighed his options. He needed more time.

“No,” he said finally. “No, I’m still in. Can I get a week though? To, like. Train up a bit?”

Paul’s mouth twitched slightly, a hint of a frown as he nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

He turned to let himself out, and Zayn leaned forward. “Hold on, wait.”

Paul looked back at him, halting his reach for the door handle.

“I need that info again,” Zayn said quickly.

It took Paul a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, before he remembered.

“Why?”

“Because the other night—didn’t work out.” Zayn’s heart was beating hard in his chest as he locked his gaze with Paul’s.

“Look, I have nothing to do with scheduling or announcements. I’m really not the person who can help you.”

“I just need a time and place again, like before. Who do I talk to, then?”

Paul sighed a little, averting his gaze for a moment. The silence stretched on until Zayn was sure Paul was going to just leave.

“Do you remember what I said to you?” Paul asked, quieter. “In the parking lot.”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, reticent.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No, no one. Swear to god.”

“Did you get an offer?”

“No, I’ve not—” Zayn stopped short, considering. “What sort of offer?”

Paul went quiet again, his gaze unwavering. “Did you or not?”

“No,” Zayn said firmly.

Paul seemed satisfied at that, the tension in his expression easing a bit.

“How can I get that information?” Zayn tried again.

Paul reached for the doorknob again. “I’ll do what I can. But this is the last time. You get me?”

Zayn nodded, but Paul had already turned to go.

*

It was Anthony that accompanied Zayn to the fitness center for training most of the week, sparring with him and spotting him while he lifted, and then joining him afterward to sit at the window counter of the curry house.

“Feeling alright?” Anthony asked, his mouth half-full of naan.

“Good, yeah,” Zayn said. “Ready to get back in, I think.”

Anthony nodded a little, scooping up another bite of his curry.

“Your brother’s been a bit scarce lately,” Zayn said, trying to keep his tone casual.

Anthony shrugged, taking a long moment to chew and swallow, gazing straight out the window. “Yeah.”

“Anything I need to know about?” Zayn said carefully, watching Anthony’s faint reflection in the glass.

Anthony went still for a moment, and then resumed eating. “No,” he said, short and hesitant. “I dunno. Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

“Fair enough,” Zayn replied, pinching off another piece of bread. “How’s your girl?”

Anthony frowned a bit and sipped on his water. “She ended it with me.”

“Bollocks,” Zayn muttered. “Sorry, mate.”

“S’alright.”

“You know what I haven’t done in ages,” Zayn mused. “Gone to the cinema.”

“You asking me on a date now I’m single?” Ant said, grinning lopsidedly.

“Oh keep dreaming,” Zayn smiled. “I’ll bloody well go on my own, then.”

“Nah c’mon, let’s see what’s on,” Anthony said, brushing his hand on his thigh before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

*

Zayn waited more than a week to hear anything, whether he was fighting or not and where Liam’s next fight might be. He ran with the presumption and the hope that Paul would make good on his offer to get him the information again, but he wasn’t entirely sure it would happen.

Danny continued to be evasive and mostly absent, keeping strange hours when he was at home, and stepping outside to take his phone calls. He managed to find excuses each time Zayn asked him to go to the fitness center or challenged him to a video game match; by the end of the week Zayn had stopped trying. He did manage to catch Danny coming home one morning, early enough that the sunrise was still mottled and gray and the flat was mostly shadowed. The light in the hall was on though as Zayn made his way back to bed from having gone to the bathroom, he and Danny reaching the bedroom door at the same time.

“Alright?” Zayn said quietly, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Yeah. Knackered,” Danny replied, his tone equally soft, defeated. He hesitated, leaning on the doorframe and glancing into the bedroom, then back to Zayn. His weariness showed in the dark circles under his eyes and the way his mouth was cast downward in a heavy line.

“After you,” Zayn said, and Danny looked relieved as he rolled himself around the edge of the entryway and shuffled into the room.

Zayn climbed back into bed, and Danny slowly shed his hoodie and track pants, leaving them on the floor, and crawled up the empty side of the mattress. He settled on his stomach, arms folded under his head on the pillow, his eyes closing immediately. Zayn curled up to face him and waited until the quiet enveloped them, save the soft sound of their breathing.

“You sure you’re alright,” Zayn said, barely more than a whisper, keeping his gaze on Danny’s face.

Danny hummed softly in a vague way that was neither a yes nor a no.

“You can talk to me,” Zayn continued, keeping his voice low. “You can still do that, y’know.”

When Danny didn’t respond or react at all, Zayn closed his eyes again, breathing in slow and deep, exhaling long, and inviting the return of sleep.

Zayn’s phone woke him some time later with a text alert and the information about his fight the next evening. Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, a different text arrived. Liam would also be fighting that same night, in a different location.

“Shit, fuck, damnit,” Zayn muttered at his phone, receiving a few odd looks from the people around him on the tube.

If he backed out of his own fight, now just a few short hours away, and they weren’t able to replace him, he wasn’t sure what might happen. Potentially he could be made to fight the next time with no compensation, or worse, taken off the schedule completely. He wasn’t especially fond of the idea of ditching his own fight to attend a different one either, given that someone who recognized him might notice. It didn’t seem as if there were many options available to Zayn; he was simply going to have to show up to his fight and miss Liam’s.

Ear buds in, Zayn made the walk from the tube station to his flat at a fast clip, revisiting possibilities in his mind, unable to arrange a viable solution. The air was sharper with cold than when Zayn had set out earlier, his breath visible as he moved along the pavement, his mood darkened with disappointment and frustration.

Zayn had no more capacity for discouragement when Paul arrived to retrieve them and Danny was nowhere to be found. He watched briefly as Anthony fired off a text in the car, tapping furiously at the keyboard, but didn’t expect his efforts would result in anything.

As Zayn slipped under the ropes and into the ring, getting a good first look at his rival for the evening, his thoughts drifted to Liam and how he must have been going through the same motions right then in a different basement or warehouse or abandoned building. Each time he attempted to pull his concentration and focus into line, they would float away again, Zayn’s gaze fixed on some distant point as his mind wandered.

“Oy,” Anthony chided, patting Zayn’s cheek once, a little more forceful than necessary. “Where are you right now?”

Zayn blinked at him. “Sorry.”

“You nervous or what?” Ant pushed Zayn’s mouthpiece in for him. 

Zayn shook his head, knocking his gloves together a couple of times.

“Good. Get us a win, yeah?”

Anthony ducked out and Zayn took a deep breath, making his way toward the center of the ring, and lifted his gloves, waiting for the fight to begin.

Zayn’s hiatus did him no favors, but his inability to concentrate proved to be the main culprit in his lackluster performance. Regardless, at the end of three rounds, he was declared the technical winner, though he wasn’t certain how that conclusion was reached. With nothing better to do, he waited around for his payout, and then piled into Paul’s backseat for the journey home.

The ride was quiet, and Zayn shut Anthony down when he began to criticize Danny for his absence. Danny and his absence were the last things Zayn wanted to discuss, especially with Ant, and Zayn carried on letting Anthony believe they were the sole cause of his listlessness.

Paul pulled up to the curb and Anthony muttered a thank you, swinging the car door open.

“Erm—I’ll be right up,” Zayn said suddenly, earning a confused look from Anthony. “Just be a minute.”

Anthony left the car, closing the door, and walked toward the building without looking back.

Zayn pulled out his phone, leaning forward and locating the text message as Paul looked at him in the mirror. “Do you reckon this other fight is finished? Could you take me there to find out?” Zayn held his phone up to display the message.

“Do I look like a taxi?” Paul said incredulously.

“I know, alright? I know,” Zayn said, shoulders slumping. “But how was I supposed to get there when I had to—be elsewhere?”

Paul shifted, turning in the seat to look at Zayn directly before speaking. “Why do you need to get there?”

“I owe him,” Zayn said, thinking quickly. “And I need to settle up.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “If you owe him, he should be the one looking for you.”

“He did me a favor,” Zayn explained partially.

“You’re going to an awful lot of trouble to needlessly pay back a favor.”

Paul’s words stirred up some uneasiness in Zayn, and he sighed, quick and short, turning to look toward the door of his building.

“Phone,” Paul said, holding his hand out, waiting. “Give me the _phone_ ,” he repeated, finally spurring Zayn into action.

Paul read the address in the message and handed Zayn’s phone back, turning to face forward again. As the car pulled away, Zayn’s muddy uneasiness was washed away by a cautious inkling of hope.

*

When they arrived at the location of the fight, rolling up slowly to the erstwhile factory, the lights were out and Zayn couldn’t see anyone lingering around. Paul circled the building, cutting through a large, empty car park, slowing at the entrance to a dark, narrow alley on the backside. The tall grids of windows were battered, most of them shattered and broken.

“If anyone’s still here—you can find them down that way,” Paul said, pointing to the alley.

“Alright,” Zayn said, but hesitated, his hand on the car door.

“I can’t go with you. I’m not even meant to be here.”

Zayn swallowed heavily. “I know.” 

Paul waited another moment, and Zayn’s grip on the door handle tightened. “Go on. I’ll stay five minutes.”

“Cheers,” Zayn said, ducking out of the car, closing the door quietly.

There was an unidentifiable hum that hung in the night air there, evidence of some distant industrial activity, and as Zayn entered the alley it grew quieter, dampened by the towering brick and mortar. The alley was littered with trash, discarded papers and bits of plastic and other items Zayn didn’t investigate too closely as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He stepped carefully, avoiding the sunken areas at his feet where stagnant rainwater had pooled. It seemed as if he’d wandered a long way, and he was tempted to turn back when he noticed a turn ahead, the alley bending at a right angle. Beyond the corner there was a faint light that barely reached the turn, and as Zayn approached it, he began to discern voices just above the low din of the hum.

“I think you might need sutures.”

“I definitely don’t need sutures,” a lower voice replied.

“One suture, I bet you need one suture. We should go see Harry.”

“Ah, leave him be, Louis, he dun’t wanna go see Harry, _you_ wanna go see Harry.” The source of that third voice possessed an unmistakable Irish accent.

Zayn took another step closer, slow and quiet, not daring to peek around the corner yet, lingering just out of sight. There were two flat metallic claps in succession, like the closing of car doors.

“Is that everything, then?” the lower voice asked, and Zayn twitched a little, but stayed put.

“Reckon so,” the first voice answered. “I really think we should—”

“We’re NOT going to see Harry,” the other two said in unison.

“Fuck’s sake,” the Irish accent said, but Zayn could detect the lilt of amusement in his voice.

“I’m not trying to be funny, though. You’re still bleeding, Liam.”

The ground beneath Zayn’s feet seemed to fall away, his stomach swooping dangerously. Without thinking, he scrambled around the corner at a half-run and very nearly collided into the back of someone with blonde hair and a purple hoodie, losing his balance as he struggled to stop. He reached out, grabbing two handfuls of the purple hood in a futile attempt to right himself. The next few moments passed in a blur of shouting and flailing, the sudden flash of knuckles, and suddenly Zayn was on his back, on the ground, having taken a hard punch right to the nose. He didn’t even have the chance to register the impact when he was pinned, held immobile by body weight.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill ya, ya cunt!” 

“Liam—” Zayn blurted out desperately, bringing his arms up to defend his face. His attacker paused, peering down at him with a confused expression, and as Zayn dared to look up again, he was met with two more faces, and two more pairs of fists at the ready.

“Zayn?” Liam said, his eyes going wide in bewilderment. “Zayn!” he said again, hauling his blonde-haired mate up and away. “Get off him, Niall!”

Zayn covered his nose with his hand, feeling the warm rush of blood onto his fingers as Liam helped him to his feet. He curled forward a bit in an attempt to keep the mess off his clothes. If he could have summoned the ground to open up and swallow him right then, he would have.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Liam asked. There was a fresh cut above his eye, right on the line of his brow.

“And who the fuck are you?” Niall added.

“Niall,” Liam said, his tone sharp with warning. “Get me a towel from the van.”

Zayn looked up and only then noticed the cargo van parked in front of them, the double doors on the back bearing a large logo for a floral company.

“I’ve been trying to find you,” Zayn said, his voice thick and nasal. He looked from the van to Liam and then down to his fingers, watching the blood run off them.

“Well, mission accomplished,” Liam said with a grin. Zayn closed his eyes out of sheer embarrassment.

“Sorry…” he muttered. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured this happening.”

Liam actually laughed a little at that, taking the towel that Niall brought and helping Zayn gently replace his hand with it.

Louis folded his arms and stepped in for a closer look. When Zayn met his gaze, recognition finally clicked; he’d seen Louis with Liam during the fights, but Zayn realized then that Louis was also the fighter who had beaten Danny.

Louis hummed quietly, lowering his voice. “Looks kind of serious, that. Don’t you think?”

“All _right_ ,” Liam said, exasperated. “We’ll go see Harry.”

*

Niall drove, fitting a snapback onto his head and turning the stereo up loud, blaring a radio station that played exclusively nineties alternative rock. Louis sat in the other seat, leaving Liam and Zayn in the expanse of the back of the van, sat across from one another on the metal floor, forced to brace themselves awkwardly each time Niall took a turn too fast. Liam kept asking if Zayn was okay, and Zayn kept insisting that he was. His bleeding had mostly subsided after he’d met Niall properly, exchanging awkward apologies, and before they’d set out to go see Harry.

There were no windows, only the faint yellowish glint in the repetition of streetlights that managed to reach them as they sped through east London. The floor was speckled with floral debris, the odd leaf or stem or tiny sprig of greenery, and a fine layer of grit that Zayn presumed to be potting soil. At the far end by the rear doors sat two mismatched gym bags.

Zayn’s nose still felt too big for his face and was sore to the touch, but he was sure he’d be fine. He wasn’t sure his judgment was entirely intact, having willingly gotten into a violent stranger’s van with someone he’d met once and another person he didn’t know at all, to go someplace he’d never been. His heart thumped uncomfortably when he considered the circumstances in too much detail, his nerves teeming with apprehension. He drew his knees up, hugging them close to his chest, and then rested his chin on them and tried not to let Liam catch him staring.

“It’s so weird that you’re here,” Liam said casually, picking up some of the larger bits from the floor and collecting them into a pile by his knee. “Were you really looking for me?”

Zayn shrugged. “Kind of, I guess, yeah.”

“What for, though?”

It was a simple enough question, and entirely reasonable for Liam to have asked. Zayn wished he had an answer at the ready, but the truth was he didn’t really know. He actually hadn’t thought any of this out at all.

“Dunno, really,” Zayn admitted. “After seeing you before, in the market, I just.” Zayn stopped, shrugging again as his words seemed to run out.

“That was so strange, yeah… I kept thinking perhaps I’d find you there again sometime.”

“Yeah, same.”

“Or see you again… you know. Elsewhere.” Liam frowned a little, continuing to collect fragments from the floor, the tiny mound of them growing steadily. Zayn noticed then the way Liam’s knuckles were battered, bruised with rough scrapes along the tops of them, darkened in the dips between.

Zayn knew what Liam meant, but couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he’d already been to one of Liam’s fights. The words of admission played over and over in his mind but it was as if his mouth couldn’t move.

“How did you manage to find out where I would be, anyway?” Liam asked, brushing his hands on his thighs.

“I’m quite clever,” Zayn replied evasively.

“Clearly.” Liam looked up again and grinned a little, and Zayn didn’t know how not to grin back.

His attention was diverted to the front when Niall killed the stereo, the van rolling to a stop.

“Right, I’ll be back for you,” Niall announced, lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair.

“You’re not going in?” Louis asked, sounding surprised.

“To this A&E at nearly two in the morning? Thanks but no. Rather lie down in traffic to be honest.”

Zayn followed Liam in climbing out of the van, stepping out onto the pavement, the doors to A&E lit brightly before them.

“Suit yourself,” Louis said, closing his own door.

“See ya, Niall,” Liam said, sliding the rear door shut.

Niall drove off and Zayn followed the others to the entrance, with Louis quickly leading the way. Zayn hung back while Louis chatted with the woman at the reception desk, taking a look around the waiting room. There were a handful of people sat here and there, but it was relatively quiet and no one seemed to be in immediate crisis. When Zayn looked up again, he caught Liam watching him; Zayn averted his eyes quickly, taking a sudden interest in a sign on the wall.

“Sorry—this shouldn’t take long,” Liam said quietly, looking about as tired as Zayn felt.

“It’s fine,” Zayn replied.

“This way lads,” Louis declared, and then they were moving, following a nurse with a clipboard, led back through a too-bright corridor and into a small room.

Louis sat himself in the one chair, which happened to have wheels, leaving the raised bench and its crinkly paper cover to Liam and Zayn. Liam hopped right up onto it, shifting over to make room, and looked up at Zayn. In the harsher light, Zayn could see more clearly the swelling around the gash on Liam’s eyebrow, the way the bruising was already spreading to his cheek and his forehead. Louis pushed off from the desk and rolled toward Zayn, the chair spinning slowly as Zayn stepped out of the way, eventually joining Liam on the bench just to give Louis more room to roll around.

“If we’re lucky,” Louis mused, the corners of his mouth turning up into a grin as he made laps in the small space, “we’ll catch Harry near his break time.”

“If _you’re_ lucky,” Liam said correctively, nudging at the arm of Louis’ chair with his toe as he rolled by, making it spin a bit more. 

Louis only grinned bigger. “Well, yeah. Maybe I meant the royal ‘we’, there.”

Liam glanced over at Zayn, and shifted a little. Zayn looked from Liam to Louis and back again, watching as the two of them exchanged pointed looks, communicating non-verbally.

“What?” Zayn said, just as the door to the room opened.

Louis scrambled to arrange himself in the chair, leaning and stretching his legs and folding his hands casually against his stomach, beaming as Harry entered, clipboard in hand.

“Hi,” Harry said, drawing out the vowel, nudging the door shut. “How’s it going?”

Harry was tall, with a full head of brown hair that fell into loose curls around his face. His mint green nurses scrubs made his eyes look almost unnatural, large and bright as he exchanged hellos and casual handshakes with Louis and Liam. Zayn watched as Harry inspected Liam’s injuries even as Liam introduced him.

“Hi, good to meet you Zayn,” Harry said, meeting Zayn’s gaze long enough for politeness as they shook hands, then returning his attention to Liam’s eyebrow.

Not to be left out, Louis rolled over in his chair, looking up at Harry. “I told him it was serious.”

Harry hummed a little, tilting his head thoughtfully. “We’ll clean it up and get a better look. As for you,” he continued, turning to Zayn. “I think some ice should do the trick.”

Zayn nodded a little and Harry looked at Louis.

“Do _you_ need anything?” Harry asked, mindful and curious.

Louis shrugged, smiling fondly at Harry. “Cup of tea, perhaps.”

Harry’s grin slowly took over his face, and he checked his clipboard before looking up again. “Erm. All right. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

Liam coughed lightly, covering his mouth with his fist as Harry left the room, the door closing with a soft click.

“If you’re staying to have tea—” Liam began.

“I know,” Louis interjected. “I know, it’s late, I’ll find my own way home.”

“It is late,” Liam echoed with emphasis. Louis spun slowly in his chair, still grinning playfully.

When Harry returned it was with an ice pack for Zayn, a fresh cup of tea for Louis, and a small basket of supplies with which he began to tend to Liam’s injury. Louis made his best effort at distracting Harry with incessant conversation, and Liam kept watching Zayn, his eyes shifting sideways so he could remain mostly still for Harry. Zayn held the cold pack on his nose for a few minutes at a time, unable to keep from smiling at Louis’ words and witty banter. Harry kept his attention on his hands while he spoke to Louis, affixing a bandage to Liam’s cut.

“No sutures, eh?” Louis asked, leaning in closer, crowding against Harry, sipping slowly on his tea.

“Not today. I think he’ll be fine. Just, erm,” Harry paused, glancing at Louis with a grin before looking back to Liam. “Try not to run into any walls, or. Other people’s fists. For a few days, anyhow.”

“Understood,” Liam said.

The realization that Louis and Harry were actively flirting reached Zayn’s conscious mind like the slow focus of a film screen, and then suddenly it was all he could see or think about. His face half-numb and tingling from the ice pack, he watched them exchange words and glances and smiles, watched as Louis grinned over the top of his cup of tea, watched as Harry raised an eyebrow and flickered his tongue over his lips as he listened to Louis, chuckling softly in amusement. Zayn couldn’t understand what it was about seeing them that upset him, his mood plummeting quickly, sullenness unfolding and leaving him irritable. What did he care if they blatantly flirted? Maybe they even dated, maybe they’d kissed, and maybe they’d even fucked already. It was none of Zayn’s concern and he adamantly refused to care.

When he accidentally dropped his ice pack, flinching as it hit the floor, everyone went quiet. Harry quickly bent to retrieve it, and Zayn avoided his gaze as Harry stood up and handed it back.

“You alright?” Liam asked, and Zayn nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

“I think we’re nearly done,” Liam said, and Harry chimed in with agreement.

“I’ll just ring for our driver, then,” Louis said with a smirk, tapping at his phone before holding it to his ear. Harry smiled at him again, all big and beaming, and Zayn turned away, discontent twisting deep in his belly.

As soon as they finished and returned to the desk with Harry and the required paperwork, Zayn took the first opportunity to slip away unnoticed, outside the doors and into the night air. He fumbled in his haste to light a cigarette, his lighter sparking uselessly a few times before producing the flame he needed. There was probably a rule or an ordinance regarding cigarettes and a certain proximity to the hospital doors, but Zayn couldn’t be bothered, inhaling deep into the hollowness in his chest, exhaling slowly into the cold.

Behind him he heard the doors open again, and footsteps advancing quickly; he turned partway, enough to discern Liam’s shape approaching.

“I thought you’d gone,” Liam said, the relief in his tone stirring something different in Zayn’s chest, something unpredicted that he quickly took another drag against. “Niall is just on his way now, we can take you home straight away. Sorry about all of this, it’s been a bit rubbish, I know.”

Zayn turned his head to look at Liam properly. The pristine white of his bandage above his eye stood out against the ill-lighted gloom.

“Quite alright,” Zayn said. “I can make my way home from wherever you’re going to.”

“It’s really not a problem,” Liam said. “Least I could do really.”

Zayn pulled hard on his cigarette, the end flaring up bright orange. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Liam’s gaze, watching instead as Liam swallowed, his throat rising and falling again.

“I should give you my number maybe,” Liam said, the statement teetering between reticent and hopeful. “If you wanted. You know. In case you ever need to. You know.”

“Sure, yeah,” Zayn said, automatically and unthinking, suddenly paralyzed by the reality of what he was doing. His mind went blank and he froze, continuing to stare at Liam’s throat, at the barely discernable spot of his birthmark.

“You do have a phone, right?” Liam asked eventually.

“Yeah—yeah, of course,” Zayn said, touching each of his pockets in turn, finally locating it. When he tried to wake it up, however, the screen remained black. “Bollocks,” Zayn muttered. “Battery’s flat.”

Liam handed his phone over without hesitation. “I could take yours, then.”

Zayn tapped out his number into Liam’s phone, hands shaking slightly, then saved it with his first name only, and passed it back to Liam.

“Cheers,” Liam said. “I’ll text you so…” he trailed off, gesturing between them. “You know.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Liam grinned and tucked his phone away, then pushed his hands into his pockets. “I’ll just go see what’s keeping Louis. Though I’m sure I could guess.”

Zayn grinned a little in return, staying put and finishing his cigarette quickly.

*

Zayn awoke in a cocoon of sheets and blankets, nestled into the sofa, to the sound of the television on at a low volume. As he took a moment to fully wake up, blinking and stirring, his thoughts flickered over dreams he couldn’t quite remember, the remnants of them disappearing each time he tried to grasp them. Pulling the covers down to his chin, he found Anthony sat on the floor in front of him, facing the telly and holding a bowl of cereal, the spoon clinking intermittently as he ate. When Zayn lifted his head, making a feeble attempt to sit up, Anthony looked back over his shoulder.

“So you are alive,” he said dryly, turning away again and grabbing up the remote, increasing the volume of the television.

“Erm. Yeah, sorry,” Zayn said, his voice scratchy from sleep.

“I sent you like a million texts.”

“My battery died.”

Zayn sat up and rubbed at his eyes; it was far too early for him to be conscious, much less on the receiving end of a reprimanding.

Anthony stood up and wandered to the kitchen and Zayn took his phone from the charger, finally powering it up. When Anthony returned it was with a displeased half-glare, but he also brought Zayn a bowl of cereal along with his own and joined him on the sofa.

“So where’d you go anyway?”

Zayn watched the message notifications roll in on his screen, a series of them from Anthony, and then three— _three already_ —from an unsaved number that had to be Liam. Zayn’s heart skipped and pounded uncomfortably, and he tucked the phone away fast, nudging it into the folds of the blankets and under his thigh.

“Nowhere exciting.”

“Were you with Danny?”

Zayn frowned in confusion, looking over at Anthony. “No?”

Anthony studied him skeptically.

“I swear I wasn’t. Have you not heard from him?”

Anthony pushed his cereal around with his spoon. “Not since yesterday morning.”

“I haven’t got a clue where he is,” Zayn said, digging into his cereal. He was a little worried about Danny, but more worried in that moment about the unread messages on his phone.

Halfway through his cereal, Zayn set the bowl aside, and took his phone to the bathroom. He didn’t bother reading Anthony’s string of messages, but instead went right to Liam’s. 

_hello! its me Liam !_ was sent before they’d even left the hospital.

About an hour after that: _hope you got home okay !_

Zayn bit his lip against a grin. He’d insisted on walking home from where Niall had dropped Louis and Liam, quite nearby the market where they’d accidentally met. It wasn’t a long walk and he’d told Liam that, but Liam had messaged him anyway, had thought about it and wondered enough to inquire. Zayn’s stomach fluttered and he brought up the next message, which by the timestamp was less than an hour old.

_don’t know if your into live music or not Niall plays sometimes. like 8pm Friday if your not busy? :)_

Zayn read and re-read the message until his screen went dark. He immediately brought it back up and began to reply, but no combination of words seemed to work; each time he composed a message he found something wrong with it and erased it all to start again. After more than fifteen minutes of guessing and second-guessing himself, Zayn gave up and returned to his soggy cereal in the front room.

It wasn’t until much later that evening, as Zayn was nearly falling asleep, that he finally forced himself to actually send a reply.

_yeah cheers sounds cool send details_

He watched the screen, nervousness and doubt wrestling their way through him. He should have said more, he should have said less, he should have just not replied at all.

Distantly, he heard the front door open, which meant Danny had finally returned. Zayn tucked his phone under the pillow, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

*

Liam sent him a text every day in the run up to Friday. They were never especially important or consequential, and sometimes Zayn replied, and other times he didn’t. Each time another message appeared on his phone, Liam’s number saved only as LP, Zayn’s unpleasant anxiety showed up right afterward. He attempted to convince himself it was due to his general social awkwardness, how he had never really been good at making friends or keeping them; he wanted to believe his nerves would subside or Liam would stop texting him or both. Beneath all of that though, Zayn knew there were other reasons, other causes for the way he reacted, for the bright burst of giddy excitement that turned over into empty restlessness and apprehension at the mere prospect of seeing Liam again. Zayn could not easily name another instance in which desire and dread battled so fiercely within him.

For all his ongoing secrecy and increased absence from the flat, Danny seemed calmer than he had in previous weeks, more at ease in the rare times when he was around. The three of them slipped easily back into their familiar coherence, at least on the surface, staying up to meet the sunrise with conventional banter and ribbing. Zayn was grateful for the reprieve from tension, though he knew it was likely temporary.

He still mentioned nothing about his plans with Liam. Internally, Zayn couldn’t conclude which was worse—explaining or not explaining—and in the end, not explaining seemed like the easier option.

He set out for the address in Liam’s text on foot, giving himself more than enough time to traverse the route twice and still arrive early. When he strolled past the market he slowed, checking his reflection in the windows, pushing a hand through his styled hair, tugging a little on the hem of his white t-shirt where it peeked out beneath the bottom of his black leather jacket. Zayn paused and lit another cigarette, checking the time before tucking his phone and his smokes back into the pocket of his black jeans. He’d only worn his brogues once before, to his uncle’s funeral, and they still shone faintly on the tops, but pinched a bit at his toes when he set off again.

The street where the pub sat was busier, both with traffic and pedestrians, small groups of people gathered in the fronts of restaurants and bars, lingering in conversation and impeding the progress of others making their way through. Zayn spotted the sign for the pub from a few doors away, his determined pace trailing off until he came to a stop at the curb. He looked back the way he’d come and hesitated, the temptation to retreat swelling up slowly within him. He swallowed hard against it, his stomach twisting with a slight pang of anxiety, and made himself move the last few steps on the pavement and then through the doors.

Inside it was both louder and darker than Zayn expected, his eyesight swimming with tiny stars as he blinked rapidly to adjust, the cacophony of voices resounding in his ears. The bar ran along the left wall just inside, with tables and booths and another room beyond it in the back. There was enough of a crowd that Zayn couldn’t see much past the bar, and had to shoulder his way through, catching snippets of clamorous conversations as he stepped up to order himself a pint of lager.

He looked around, craning right and left, but saw no sign of Liam or the others, and made his way toward the back room. The crowd thinned as he went, a narrow archway dividing the front bar from the back, which contained more seating and a small stage in one corner, empty except for a stool, some amps, and a microphone on a stand.

Zayn spotted Liam immediately in his scan of the room, sat in a booth against the far wall, Louis beside him and Niall opposite to them. Louis was talking and Niall was laughing and Liam smiled, his lips moving quickly as he commented, his eyes sparkling with amusement even as the corners of them compressed with his laughter. Zayn’s fingers nearly slipped on his pint, his other hand moving quickly to needlessly grab hold of the bottom of the glass. Liam looked up as Zayn made his way over; their gazes met only briefly, but Zayn watched as Liam sat up a little taller, grinning down into his pint glass before taking a quick drink.

As Zayn approached their table, Louis looked over and moved quickly from Liam’s side, sliding in beside Niall instead, leaving the seat beside Liam open for him.

“Alright, Zayn?” Niall said first, extending his hand over the table as Zayn sat down, and Zayn’s reciprocal greeting was lost in Louis and Liam’s subsequent hellos as he and Niall shook hands.

Louis launched immediately back into his narrative and Zayn did his best to follow along, settling as the perturbing prickle of his nerves subsided. He observed quietly as the others conversed, smiling in spite of himself at Niall’s quick wit, Louis’ dramatic turns of phrase, and Liam’s sparse but measured additions.

“Blimey, ’s that the time?” Niall said, checking his phone. “S’pose I’d best go grab my guitar. Buy us a pint Tommo, will ya?”

“You still owe me one from last week, wanker,” Louis said, already standing up to let Niall out.

“Ah come on, you know where I live,” Niall said, landing a clap on Louis’ shoulder and hurrying off.

“Niall lives upstairs,” Liam explained, his voice softer and closer than Zayn expected.

Zayn turned from watching Louis make his way to the bar, meeting Liam’s gaze for the first real time.

“Hi,” Liam smiled. “You alright? Thanks for turning up.”

“Thanks for having me.” Zayn looked back toward his pint as his nervousness surged again.

Liam was in a blue plaid button-down shirt, the pattern of which Zayn could see in his peripheral vision. His sleeves were rolled up partway to his elbows and he was fidgeting with a cardboard drink coaster, turning it over and over in his fingers.

“I hope you enjoy it, I mean. Niall’s not half bad actually. Does loads of cover songs mostly. Are you into music, or?”

“Yeah, of course, yeah,” Zayn said. “Ever since I was a kid, like. My mum couldn’t get me to stop singing, basically.”

“Yeah, same,” Liam said. “Did you grow up in London, then?”

“Nah, Bradford,” Zayn said. “You?”

“Wolverhampton, actually.”

Liam continued to ask Zayn questions—about his family, his interests, his football leanings—and Zayn found it atypically easy to talk about himself, learning details about Liam in the process. On the makeshift stage, Niall tuned up his guitar; Louis brought Niall a pint and took a seat nearer the front.

“What’re you drinking?” Liam asked as Niall did a cursory test on the microphone.

“Just lager.”

“Would you like another one?”

“Sure, yeah,” Zayn said, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet.

“I’ve got it,” Liam said, his hand making brief contact with Zayn’s forearm. “Back in a tick.”

Zayn had to get up to let Liam out from the bench, his gaze lingering a little long on the length of Liam’s torso and the fit of his jeans as he walked away. Zayn finished his drink in one go as he sat down again.

By the time Liam returned, Niall was playing already, perched on a stool in his backward baseball cap, his fingers switching chords quickly through a rendition of a pop song Zayn vaguely remembered from a few years back. He stood up and let Liam slide in again, retaking his seat as Liam placed Zayn’s pint onto a coaster.

“Cheers,” Zayn said, leaning in a bit so Liam could hear him.

“No worries,” Liam said, and for a brief moment his knee brushed Zayn’s, a tiny buzz of denim against denim beneath the table that was surely an accident, but one Zayn immediately wished he could repeat.

There were only a couple dozen people in the room to begin with, and only a handful of them seemed to be deliberate spectators; the others continued their conversations loudly over the sound of Niall’s singing and playing. Zayn applauded between songs, catching out of the corner of his eye the way Liam kept turning to look at him. Zayn looked over in return belatedly, glancing fast at Liam’s profile before returning his attention to the performance.

Niall played and spoke briefly between tunes, took a couple of requests and ignored the boisterous commentary from a rowdy group of lads in the back. Zayn spent the duration of the performance acutely aware of each time Liam moved, every slight shift in his seat and each time he took a sip from his drink, hoping somehow the small space between them would suddenly disappear. It was a foreign, unsettling feeling; it made the time pass with both excruciating sluggishness and maddening haste as Niall finished song after song and the perception of opportunity slipped away.

Zayn subtly dropped his hand to his own thigh in a moment of bravery, letting it slide along the outer seam of his jeans, then rested it on the bench between them, and still found he wasn’t touching Liam at all. Then Niall was finishing up, and Louis stood up and cheered, and Zayn applauded along with Liam and it was all over with.

“He’s good, yeah?” Liam said with a grin, and Zayn nodded, short and quick.

The house music came up again and Liam excused himself to the loo and Zayn fidgeted, suddenly badly needing a cigarette. Without telling anyone, he slipped outside to the adjacent alley, joining the other smokers seeking their fix in the dim incident light. Zayn leaned against the brick wall, taking long, hard drags one after the other, trying to be quick. He was nearly done, his head feeling light and floaty in the rush of nicotine and the lingering effects of the pints, when Liam appeared.

“There you are—you keep doing that,” Liam smiled, tucking his hands beneath his arms, hunching his shoulders against the cold. He stepped right into Zayn’s space, and Zayn went still, his gaze held by Liam’s.

“Smoking?”

“Running off.”

“Not really,” Zayn countered. “I’m right here.”

Liam didn’t respond, just stayed there, stood a little too close just for conversation, but still miles away for Zayn’s liking. Zayn’s pulse began to thud uncomfortably as the moment stretched on, Liam’s gaze flickering down toward Zayn’s mouth and back again. Liam shuddered suddenly, folding his arms tighter across his chest. Zayn looked down, dropping the end of his cigarette, and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe.

“Shall we, then?” Liam asked, his voice quiet.

“After you,” Zayn replied, tucking his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch.

Back at the table, Niall had finished both of their pints.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said by way of explanation. “Leave no pint unfinished and all that. Do you wanna nip upstairs instead? Got a couple cans left, I think.”

Liam glanced briefly at Zayn, then back to Niall, frowning in confusion. “Where’s Louis?”

“Said he’s meeting up with Harry and don’t wait up.”

“Oh. Well done him, then,” Liam said. “Erm—cheers for the invite, Niall, but. Maybe some other time?”

Liam met Zayn’s gaze, like looking for approval or agreement.

“Yeah, cheers, good show, too,” Zayn said. “Next time, for sure.”

“Yeah, alright,” Niall grinned, picking up his guitar case. “I’ll be seeing ya. We on for tomorrow then, Liam?”

“Tomorrow, yeah,” Liam replied, and Niall nodded. Liam waited until Niall walked off before meeting Zayn’s gaze again. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s stomach did a somersault, and Liam put his coat on.

*

Walking beside Liam on the pavement did nothing to quell the way Zayn’s nerves held him hostage, like he couldn’t quite get enough air no matter how slowly he tried to breathe while he counted his steps. He kept his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather coat, jostled lightly now and again as they slipped past other pedestrians, the slightest brush of Liam’s arm against his own causing a wave of longing that made Zayn’s eyes fall shut.

“So are you…” Liam began, breaking the silence between them, pulling Zayn from his reverie. “Erm. Are you still—with the fights and all that?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“I nearly quit, you know. After—what happened with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just because, like. I’ve never—” Liam began, tucking his hands in his pockets and dropping his gaze a bit, his pace slowing. “I mean. I don’t… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?”

“When you were—at the end, I mean.” 

Zayn turned his head slightly to look at Liam, but Liam’s gaze was fixed on the ground.

“When you collapsed, I—I kind of lost it.” Liam paused, and Zayn followed him as he turned the corner onto another street. “I never intended for that to happen.”

“Mmh,” Zayn hummed in understanding. “I figured as much, yeah.”

“So for what it’s worth… I’m sorry that it did happen like that. And I’m glad you’re alright.”

Zayn carried on walking beside Liam in silence, unsure what to say. It hadn’t occurred to him that Liam would have thought twice about how the fight ended; it’s what they had been paid to do. He fondled his pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket, his fingertips tracing the top corners and along the length of the sides. Liam slowed in the middle of the block and then stopped abruptly; Zayn looked up and also came to a stop, realizing the market was over the road.

“This is me,” Liam said, hooking a thumb toward the doorway behind him, a shallow brick alcove that shielded a thick grey door. “I don’t think I have any beer or anything, but. I could make you a cup of tea. If you’d like.”

The street was not well lit, but Liam’s eyes somehow still found a way to glimmer when Zayn met his gaze, his brow lifted in open hopefulness, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.

“Or a coffee if that’s more your thing, though I’ll be judging you silently on that, fair warning.”

Zayn smiled broadly, all sudden and unexpected, turning his head as he did, through the rush of sudden affection.

“Tea would be nice, I think.”

“Good, good, crisis averted,” Liam said, and turning his back to Zayn, began to unlock the door.

It was one flight up to Liam’s flat, the stairway narrow and creaky, and Liam kept glancing back as they climbed. There were two locks on the next door, and as it swung open Liam stepped inside, flicking the light on his way, holding the door for Zayn.

“Come in, sorry I’ve not tidied, can I take your coat for you?”

Zayn glanced around at the modestly sized front room as he slid his jacket from his arms, while Liam closed the door. It was simple but cozy, a sofa and a chair and a small table between them, a telly in the corner and a desk beside it, but nothing at all was messy or seemed out of place. Zayn didn’t know what Liam was apologizing for; his flat was warm and lived-in and looked and felt like a home.

Liam produced a hanger for Zayn’s coat, tucking it away behind the curtained-off closet, then began to remove his shoes. Zayn followed, toeing his brogues off, stretching his feet a bit.

“So… front room, yeah? Down that way first door is the loo, and over here’s the kitchen,” Liam explained, gesturing without taking a step. “Tea?”

“I believe I was promised tea, yeah.”

“Make yourself at home, then,” Liam grinned, and walked through to the kitchen, the door swinging as he went.

Zayn stood in place for a long moment, listening as Liam filled the kettle, and then taking a deep breath, pushed the door open slowly and followed him.

The kitchen was long and narrow and dated, the countertops a cheery yellow from decades ago, the tile on the floor cracked in various places. Liam was looking into a cupboard, choosing from a modest collection of mismatched mugs. There was a small pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, but everything else was clean and neat and it vaguely reminded Zayn of his grandmother’s house. He leaned against the counter with one hip, watching as Liam dropped a tea bag into each mug.

“Sugar?” Liam asked, glancing over, before bending down to retrieve the milk from the fridge.

Zayn folded his arms loosely across his middle, studying the plane of Liam’s shoulders and the curve of his arms in his shirt, recalling the shape of him without the clothes in the way.

“I’m alright, cheers.”

Liam got the sugar out anyhow, and then a spoon, and then the kettle was ready. As he carefully poured the steaming water into both mugs, Zayn slid a half step closer, enough that if he reached over he could touch, the mug or the kettle or Liam. The idea of it was so alien to him though, that all he could do was stand there, his hands curled into loose fists and tucked against his ribcage.

Zayn read books, more often than he admitted, and he watched films and lived in society and thought he understood that the evening invitation for a cup of tea was meant to be a façade, a charade that would put two people alone together where anything but tea-drinking could occur. Watching Liam painstakingly scoop out the teabags and add the milk to both mugs and the sugar only to his own, though, Zayn wasn’t certain he understood at all. Maybe tea was sometimes just tea; maybe Zayn had gotten it wrong all along. It wasn’t as if he had a robust personal frame of reference on which he could rely.

“You’re very quiet,” Liam remarked, lightly stirring one mug, then the other, the spoon clinking cheerfully in the relative silence.

Zayn frowned slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “S’pose I am, yeah.”

“I meant generally,” Liam explained. “It wasn’t a criticism.” He slowly slid Zayn’s tea toward him on the counter, moving the mug against the surface. “Very intriguing,” Liam said, softer, his gaze holding Zayn’s for a moment.

Liam picked up his tea and took a sip, then tilted his head a bit at Zayn, who once again second-guessed himself, unsure what he should say. He lowered his gaze to Liam’s collar, and Liam cleared his throat lightly.

“We could go sit in the front room if you’d like.”

Zayn’s eyes flickered up to meet Liam’s again, and he reached for his own mug of tea. “Sure, yeah.”

As they settled side by side on the sofa, placing the mugs equally adjacent on the table in front of them, Zayn fidgeted, his thoughts racing as he attempted to come up with something to talk about. He ran his hands along the tops of his thighs, sitting on the edge of the cushion, glancing over the items strewn on the tabletop—a couple of textbooks, the remote controls for the television, a stack of mail.

“Could I ask you a slightly awkward question?” Liam said, sounding hesitant. “Or perhaps very awkward.”

“Okay,” Zayn replied, and stilled his hands, shifting back a bit and glancing over.

“You just seem quite nervous and I—if I’ve done anything to cause that, or—if you’re not interested in—you know. In me. Then it’s not a big deal. I won’t be offended or anything.”

“No, I am,” Zayn said quickly, quicker than the alarms in his brain could stop the words from escaping his mouth. He fought through his internal panic to continue, his voice going softer, his gaze fixed on the two mugs sat in front of him. “I just don’t normally do this.”

“Have tea and a conversation?” Liam asked, his tone bemused.

Zayn shook his head; technically tea and conversations were also rare for him, but that wasn’t exactly what he meant. 

“No, I mean. Any of this, really.”

“I could put the telly on, or… the stereo, perhaps…”

Liam trailed off, and Zayn drew in a deep breath, bracing his hands on the sofa on either side of his hips so he could shift closer, turning slightly toward Liam. Liam looked at him, his expression somewhere between thoughtful and curious, and Zayn let his gaze drop to Liam’s lips.

“Or,” Liam began again, barely more than a whisper now. “I could just.”

He leaned in gradually; closing the small space between them slowly enough that Zayn had time to take in the curve of Liam’s cheek, the slope of his nose, and tilted his head slightly in anticipation. Liam still paused just before their lips met, breathing softly over Zayn’s mouth for what seemed an eternity, until Zayn was sure he’d lost the ability to breathe himself. Finally Liam’s lips pressed against his, warm and soft with the slightest pressure, lingering as Zayn inhaled sharply, his pulse fluttering wildly. Liam drew back just a bit, and though he was still too close to focus Zayn could see his eyelashes, the dark sweep of them that fell shut as Liam kissed him again. Zayn closed his eyes, and though it was only his lips that were touching Liam at all, his entire body went weightless, tingling electric with excitement.

Immediately Zayn noted how differently it felt, kissing Liam, the push of Liam’s full lips against his own unhurried and careful as they found their way against Zayn’s. Zayn’s heart pounded hard inside his chest, like it might burst free at any moment, like each nip and catch of his lips between Liam’s untethered his physiology. When Liam’s hand brushed the side of Zayn’s neck, Liam’s thumb tracing along the line of his jaw, Zayn shivered and sighed involuntarily, welcoming the slip of Liam’s tongue against his parted mouth.

Liam kissed him again and again, drawing out sounds that Zayn fought to contain, whimpers and sighs of pleasure at Liam’s tongue against his, the slick glide and push of their mouths, the brief pinch of Liam’s teeth at his lower lip. Zayn kept his eyes shut, each shift and sensation sending a sharp jolt of arousal right down his spine, blooming into a consuming ache, his cock straining in the confinement of his jeans.

Then, without warning, the kissing tapered abruptly, Liam’s nose nudging Zayn’s own, their lips making the barest contact as Liam breathed heavily. Zayn opened his eyes as Liam pulled back slightly, his face flushed, his lips slick and pink, his gaze flickering from Zayn’s eyes to his mouth.

“This is okay, yeah?” Liam asked softly, shifting a bit, his knee bumping Zayn’s. He ran his thumb across Zayn’s cheek, tucking his fingers into the short hair behind Zayn’s ear, and Zayn’s eyes drifted shut again. “Do you want to lie down?”

Zayn blinked, the heady fog of arousal cut with the expectation of Liam’s question. He managed to nod a little in reply, and as he moved automatically and began to recline, Liam’s hand at the back of his neck squeezed slightly and held him still.

“This way, ‘s easier,” Liam said, letting go and leaning back, shifting himself around to lie down, stretching out the length of the sofa. Zayn mostly watched, ducking out of the way as Liam rearranged himself and made a little room for Zayn by pressing his back to the back of the sofa.

Liam reached out, taking Zayn’s hand, tugging lightly in encouragement. Zayn let himself be pulled forward and let his gaze wander the length of Liam’s torso, from his chest to his abs and down to his hips, the outline of his cock clearly visible against his jeans. When he settled against Liam it was on his side, pressed chest to chest, tucked snugly as their legs tangled, Liam’s knee nudging its way between Zayn’s. They shifted a bit more, settling, Zayn’s arms folded tight between them, Liam’s hand running from Zayn’s shoulder down his side and back again.

“Alright?” Liam asked again, his face so close now that Zayn chose to reply with the upward tilt of his chin and the press of his mouth to Liam’s again, foregoing words he wasn’t entirely sure he could produce anyway.

Liam groaned quietly, but the sound still traveled all the way through Zayn, buzzing on his lips, through his hands curled loosely at Liam’s chest, through the flex of Liam’s thigh against his own and the curl of Liam’s hand at his hip. Liam kissed him thoroughly, deep and continuous, his touch wandering slow and constant from Zayn’s side to the back of his shoulder to the curl of his bicep, Liam’s fingers tucking up beneath the sleeve of Zayn’s shirt. Zayn pulled back briefly to catch his breath, dizzy and overwhelmed, and Liam’s mouth traveled to Zayn’s chin, trailing to his throat, wet presses of his lips and flickers of his tongue on Zayn’s skin that made him squirm, whimpering helplessly.

Liam lifted his gaze, grinning as he nudged at Zayn’s nose. “You’re so fit,” Liam murmured, his voice low and deep and making Zayn’s chest ache. “You’re gorgeous. I really want to touch you.”

Zayn swallowed hard, whimpering slightly at the end of it, his mouth half numb, and his jaw aching distantly. The palm of Liam’s hand met his cheek again, and at Liam’s chest Zayn’s fingers twitched slightly. He dropped his gaze as Liam kept stroking his face.

“Tell me what you want, what you like,” Liam continued, and Zayn closed his eyes against the sharp discomfort of anxiety that teetered within him. “Or we could just continue kissing for now, that would be nice.”

Zayn wanted to; he wanted to lift his face to Liam’s again, to ignore the inexplicable alarms within him that caused him to freeze up, his muscles tensing and his chest tightening. The more he fought it, the worse it became, the silence between them lengthening. Zayn flushed warm in embarrassment, Liam’s thumb against his cheek and Liam’s thigh against his and the sofa itself seemed rapidly confining, and Zayn tried to shift, to create some space so he could breathe, so he could think, squirming quick and sudden.

“What’s wrong? Don’t fall—” Liam said quickly, his arm curling around Zayn’s waist to hold him, trying to sit up somewhat at the same time.

Zayn flailed a bit, certain that he elbowed Liam in the ribs as he half slid off the sofa, out from Liam’s embrace, and rose quickly to his feet. He turned around to face the door, taking deep breaths, tugging his shirt down where it had twisted around him.

“Zayn?”

“Sorry, I just—” Zayn tugged sharply at his hair with one fist, fighting the panic and humiliation to get his words out. “I should just go, sorry.”

Zayn stepped quickly over to where his shoes were, struggling to shove his feet into them in a hurry, leaning with one hand against the wall.

“Did I say something wrong? Did I do something?”

Liam’s words only made everything a million times worse, augmenting Zayn’s alarm and agitation. He shook his head silently, not entirely sure that Liam even saw him, too focused on escaping to find out.

“Will you please say something?” Liam tried, sounding defeated.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn said again, fumbling with the multiple locks on Liam’s door.

Liam didn’t say anything else, and Zayn left, hurrying out of Liam’s flat and building and onto the street. He was nearly a block away before he realized he’d left his coat in Liam’s front closet, folding his arms tightly across his chest, the thin material of his shirt providing no protection against the penetration of the cold air.

*

The days that followed were shorter and greyer, thick clouds hanging low in the overcast sky, the cold temperatures unrelenting. Zayn returned to the training center and poured his energy and concentration into his boxing, lifting and sparring and practicing on the heavy hanging bag until his shoulders went sore and his hands ached. When he focused, he was fine, but the moment he allowed his mind to wander even a bit, his thoughts immediately went directly to Liam. No amount of diligence in pushing them away could prevent their eventual return; Zayn thought of him before even realizing he was doing it, always with the heavy gloom of guilt and regret to follow.

Three days after his disastrous departure from Liam’s flat, Liam sent him a text. Zayn had just woken up, sprawled on his belly beneath layers of blankets. His thoughts were all jumbled and slow from sleep, and when he looked at his phone it took him a few tries to realize what the message said.

_Hi. I hope your ok. I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you upset. I have your coat let me know if I should meet you somewhere to return it. Sorry again. (Liam)_

Zayn sighed and set the phone face down on the bed beside him, staring blankly at the wall. It was early and he didn’t have a steady grasp on his emotions or his thoughts yet. The typical remorse and anxiety took a backseat to simple sense memory, to the feel of Liam’s mouth against his and the dizzy, overwhelming eagerness with which Zayn’s entire body responded to Liam’s touch. Zayn inhaled deeply, sighing again and closing his eyes, recalling the warmth of Liam’s body and the enticement of his smell, unable to find either of them on his own pillow.

Zayn tucked a hand down against his belly, lifting his hips slightly to accommodate it. He was already hard just from waking up warm and comfortable, and he slid his hand into the front of his boxer briefs, fingers pushing into the coarse hair below his waistband, seeking out the length of his cock. He curled his fist around it, lifting up enough to push into his own grasp, his shoulder pressing into the mattress, his face into the pillow as he worked his hips. Thoughts and memories of Liam came at him rapid fire, his mouth falling open against the fabric of the pillowcase, rough and dry in comparison to the slick warmth of Liam’s kissing. Zayn’s wrist began to ache, his arm trapped and his range of motion limited, but he barely registered the discomfort, his quick, hard climax canceling it all out. Zayn came in his pants, thrusting into his hand, muffling his groan into his pillow.

He didn’t reply to Liam. Not that day or the next, nor the one after. He often considered it, sometimes staring blankly at his phone, but talked himself out of it time and again, battling internally with the heavy coil of anxiety that arrested his thoughts.

It wasn’t until he found himself wandering back toward the market that he consciously entertained the idea of actually seeing Liam again. He hadn’t even set out with a destination in mind; the stuffiness of his flat and his pervasive restlessness had driven him outdoors as the sun was setting, his iPod for companionship, and that was simply the direction his feet had taken him.

It had been more than a week since he’d fled Liam’s flat in a panic and four days since Liam’s text. Zayn’s thoughts on the matter hadn’t changed much; he still felt deeply unsettled and regretful and uncomfortable with what he’d done. Beneath all of that though, Zayn was drawn to his deeply pleasant memories of Liam; the flicker of desire in his gaze, the sound of his voice, the way it had felt to be pressed so close against him, before it had all gone wrong. 

Stood in front of the thick grey door, Zayn lingered, unable to quite bring himself to press the button to ring Liam’s flat. The sun was gone and the streetlamps flickered on and Zayn stood there a long time, staring at the doorbell, his hands curled tight in the pockets of his hoodie. He tried to imagine being in Liam’s flat again, speaking with him again, having a normal conversation like normal people do when they fancy someone—and couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had no idea how he’d ended up there in the first place, and turned quickly to make his way back to where he came from.

Except that when he did, walking toward him on the pavement from a few meters away was Liam. He was in a beanie and a hoodie, a pair of sweatpants and trainers with a messenger bag hanging across his chest. Zayn froze, tugging his ear buds from his ears; Liam hadn’t looked up yet but he would at any moment, and Zayn had nowhere to go. Any attempt to flee quickly would only attract attention, and so Zayn waited, and Liam approached, and then finally lifted his gaze as he came to an abrupt halt.

His left eye was completely encompassed in a recent dark bruise.

“Zayn?”

“Hi,” Zayn said lamely.

Liam frowned, and then stepped right past Zayn to the door, unlocking it quickly. “Are you coming up for your coat?” he asked without looking back.

“If that’s alright.”

Liam didn’t answer, but he held the door as he stepped inside, and Zayn followed him in. The terse silence continued as they made their way up and into the flat, and Liam dropped his bag unceremoniously just inside the door. The zipper on the top was broken, the material frayed where the sewing had given way, exposing the contents of the bag. It was filled with textbooks, three of them, and a couple of spiral notebooks. Zayn tilted his head a little, trying to read the titles.

“Here’s your coat,” Liam said, holding it out toward Zayn.

“Are you a student?” Zayn asked, tentatively taking the coat from Liam’s hand.

Liam dropped his arm quickly, his brow deeply furrowed. “I am. Why?”

“What’re you studying, then?”

“Hang on,” Liam said, pinching briefly at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Why are you here? What is happening right now?”

Zayn could feel the panic welling up inside him again, the compulsion to flee. He kept his feet rooted to the spot though, swallowing hard against the way his throat tightened, keeping a firm grasp on his jacket.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Zayn began, keeping his gaze on his hands, his voice wavering slightly. “I just went for a walk, I don’t know, I didn’t plan for any of this to happen.”

Liam sighed softly, staying quiet. Zayn waited a moment before looking up.

“I don’t understand you,” Liam said plainly. “But I wish I could.”

“I don’t think I understand me, either, for what it’s worth.”

Liam nearly grinned, his mouth twitching with it, even though Zayn wasn’t trying to be funny. “If I offer you some tea again, are you going to disappear on me for another week?”

“I—no.” Zayn’s hands were shaking along with his voice. “No. I won’t.”

“Would you like some tea, then?”

“Please,” Zayn replied, surprised at the rush of relief that flooded through him.

*

Liam was studying business and marketing, and listening to him talk about university while they drank their tea made Zayn a little wistful, his thoughts drifting to the possibility of how differently his life could have been, had he made other choices. In the middle of their chat Louis came in, letting himself into the flat and dropping a trail of shoes and his coat on his way through the front room.

“Hi, sorry, you alright? Not staying long I promise, out of your hair in a tick!” he called from the corridor, a door closing loudly to punctuate his frenzied announcement.

Liam was already up and picking Louis’ stray items off the floor, placing them neatly away in the closet. Zayn heard the shower go on in the bathroom.

“He lives here, right?”

Liam chuckled. “Allegedly.”

“Just checking.”

“How about you, where do you live?” Liam settled onto the sofa again, closer to Zayn this time.

“Just,” Zayn gestured vaguely toward the wall. “Not far. Up that way a bit.”

“On your own?”

“Nah. My two best mates live with me. We all grew up together.”

“That must be nice, yeah?”

Talking about Danny and Anthony sent a ripple of uneasiness through him, like miscalculating a step, that sudden, sweeping fear of falling to the ground just before you catch yourself.

“Mhm,” Zayn hummed vaguely.

Thankfully Liam moved on, changing the subject, chatting away and leaving Zayn to relax enough to watch the way Liam’s lips moved, to lose himself a little in wanting to know what they felt like on his own again. His reverie was interrupted as Louis returned, freshly showered and shaved and sharply dressed, finishing the buttons on his shirt.

“Where have my shoes gone, Liam? Honestly,” Louis said, his head turning this way and that as he searched for them on the floor.

“In the closet, Lou.”

“Right, cheers, I’m off. Have fun, don’t wait up,” Louis said, quickly retrieving his shoes and coat, taking them out the door.

“Sorry, what was I saying?” Liam asked.

Zayn didn’t have a clue, just leaned in quick and unannounced, colliding with Liam in a kiss, clumsy and a little off-center. Liam made a muffled sound of surprise, and then pushed lightly at Zayn’s shoulder, pulling back at the same time.

“Hang on—hang on a second,” Liam said quietly.

Zayn started to lean in again, but paused at the pressure from Liam’s hand, meeting his eyes.

Liam swallowed lightly, his voice soft and tentative. “Um. I just—I don’t want to freak you out again, or anything.”

“I won’t.”

Zayn tried again to move in, but Liam tightened his grip on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Why did you, then?”

“Don’t know—doesn’t matter,” Zayn said, the words unconvincing even to his own ears.

“It matters to me,” Liam countered, and Zayn finally pulled away, slouching into the back of the sofa, and took a deep breath.

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” Zayn said, pushing his fingertips against his eyes, mostly to hide his face. “I don’t know.”

“Then how can you be sure it won’t happen again?”

Zayn had no idea how to answer that; he had no idea why he was there, what he was doing or saying. Everything was a giant void of unknown and confusion, and he couldn’t even bring his hands away from his face. He stayed still, like maybe if he waited long enough he could sink into the sofa and disappear. Liam placed a hand on Zayn’s knee, warm pressure where he stroked the top of Zayn’s thigh a little.

“Is it—are you already with someone?”

Zayn’s hands dropped immediately and he looked at Liam with confusion. “What? No, why—”

“You’re just—so secretive. You don’t want to talk about where you live. I don’t even know your last name, and… when you left the way you did…”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“I’ve been cheated on before and it’s not a very nice feeling.”

“I’m not with anyone,” Zayn said, sitting up a bit in his insistence. “I’ve never been with anyone—dated, or whatever, alright? Isn’t that obvious?”

“No it’s not, actually,” Liam said, quieter. “I don’t know things if you don’t tell them to me.”

Zayn looked away to the floor, and Liam moved his hand to Zayn’s, threading their fingers together loosely. Zayn held on a little, squeezing slightly.

“It’s Malik, by the way. M-A-L-I-K.”

“Alright,” Liam said. “Zayn Malik, would it be okay with you if I kissed you?”

Zayn tried to suppress his grin, but not very hard. “Yeah, go on, then.”

*

Zayn didn’t end up seeing Liam every day, but it was close to that. Liam’s schedule was much busier and Zayn had fewer obligations, but they exchanged texts and met for dinner and held hands in the darkness of the movie theater and kissed on the sofa until Zayn’s lips ached and his jaw was sore, his entire body thrumming with want. Liam was careful and clever, murmuring queries against Zayn’s neck, questions ranging from mundane to complex, their kissing sessions dissolving into prolonged discussions and vice versa. Liam’s hands roamed beneath Zayn’s shirt and Zayn learned the place on Liam’s throat where his pulse fluttered wildly under the press of Zayn’s lips. When it grew late, Liam would offer to walk Zayn home, and Zayn would kindly refuse, and Liam never pushed.

Some days Zayn felt like he would burst from the sheer magnitude of it all, from the way Liam seemed to occupy every thought he had, to the rush of anticipation stirred up with the lingering reminiscence of kisses and words exchanged in the dark. His day-to-day became divided between the elation of being with Liam and the longing of waiting while he tried to keep himself busy. He tried to hold it all in, to keep it safe and private within himself, but it was more like trying to consistently be two different people—the Zayn he’d always been on one side, and then someone else—someone he was becoming on the other.

To have hoped his two best friends wouldn’t notice was a futile effort.

“Are you even listening, hello?”

Anthony’s words jolted Zayn from his reverie, and he sat up a little taller on his stool, giving his coffee another stir. The background noise of the coffee shop slowly returned to his consciousness.

“Yeah, sorry, go on.”

“Mate, c’mon, what’s the matter with you?”

“Dunno, just tired or something.”

“Fuck off,” Anthony said, his tone mostly lacking hostility, lobbing a crumpled napkin at Zayn. It bounced from his chest to his lap, landing on the floor. “Don’t fucking lie to me, at least.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, then.”

“Fine.”

“Is your brother meeting us or not?” Zayn checked the time on his phone.

“Here’s an idea. The two of you talk to each other again instead of always asking me.”

Zayn looked up and Anthony slid from his stool to his feet, shoving his arms into his coat.

“Where are you going?” Zayn asked, a bit stunned.

Anthony didn’t answer, just snatched up his cardboard coffee cup and walked away, leaving Zayn to sit there in bewilderment. He waited another ten minutes for Danny, reading back through his text conversations with Liam, then left the coffee shop.

*

“So I fight tomorrow,” Liam murmured into Zayn’s shoulder as Zayn leaned against him in the kitchen. They were waiting on the kettle, but Zayn couldn’t resist shuffling into Liam, eliminating the space between them, nuzzling at Liam’s neck. They’d been trading heated kisses on the sofa until Louis had come home, and when they’d moved to the kitchen to make some tea, Zayn hadn’t quite been ready to give up their adjacency. 

“I want to be there.”

Liam slid an arm around Zayn’s waist, holding on loosely. “You don’t have to.”

“Want to, though.” Zayn traced the column of Liam’s throat with the tip of his nose, and then pressed a kiss beneath his jaw.

“Have you been scheduled recently, or?”

Zayn went still, thinking. “Haven’t, actually, now that I think about it. Not for a couple weeks, I guess.”

“S’just strange. I’m on every week it seems.”

“That is a bit weird, maybe. Dunno.” 

Liam dropped a kiss where Zayn’s shoulder met his neck, lingering. “I’ll be rubbish probably. Haven’t been to the gym much this week.”

“Is that my fault?” Zayn asked, pulling back just enough to meet Liam’s gaze.

“No.” Liam quirked an eyebrow, grinning. “Maybe?”

Liam shifted out of the embrace to pour the kettle, his back to Zayn as he prepared their tea.

“So we can watch telly with Louis,” Liam said. “Or we could—have our tea in my room. If you want. Up to you.”

Zayn slowly and carefully pressed himself against Liam’s back, his hands fitting to Liam’s sides, fingers curling just below his ribcage. He kissed the back of Liam’s neck, just above the line of his t-shirt. “Let’s go to your room.”

Zayn had only been in Liam’s room once before, briefly in passing; entering with the intention to stay seemed significant in a new way to which Zayn couldn’t quite put words. Liam flipped the light on, nudged the door shut, and placed their tea on the bedside table, drawing his curtains closed. There was nowhere else to sit but the bed, so after a tentative sip at his steaming mug of tea, Zayn climbed in.

Liam’s bed was just big enough for two people, his light grey duvet smoothed neatly over the top, two pillows propped symmetrically against the simple wooden headboard. Zayn settled in front of the one nearest the table, and Liam crawled up beside him from the end of the bed.

“Hi,” Liam grinned, settling close, the bed creaking faintly. “How’re you, how’s the tea, could you pass mine over, please?”

Zayn carefully handed Liam his mug, and after taking a sip, Liam passed it back to be returned to the table. Liam shifted down, stretching out onto the bed, and Zayn followed his lead, turning onto his side to face Liam, pushing at the pillow a few times to settle in.

“You alright?” Liam asked again.

“Good, yeah,” Zayn replied.

They weren’t quite touching, just facing each other, and Zayn slid one socked foot over until it bumped against Liam’s. Liam wriggled a little closer, until their knees touched and Liam reached over to set his hand against Zayn’s hip.

“I’ve imagined this quite a lot, you know,” Liam said quietly, smiling small with his confession.

“Well, now you won’t need to.” Zayn’s words came out glib and self-assured, but the idea that Liam laid in bed and thought about him had him fighting to contain his elated grin.

“Will you let me walk you home tonight?” Liam asked, his eyes wide and unassuming.

Zayn shrugged a little, his floaty feeling doused a bit. “I can manage, Liam, really.”

“I know you can.”

“You keep asking, though.”

“I keep wanting to, that’s all.”

Zayn slowly turned onto his back, Liam’s hand falling off his hip, and gazed up at the ceiling. 

“Hey…” Liam said gently, lifting his head and propping it on his hand, supported by his elbow as he leaned over. “I won’t if you don’t want me to. I just don’t get why it’s a thing, that’s all.” He set his hand against Zayn’s t-shirt, over the middle of his stomach.

Zayn drew his knee up, foot planted on the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure why it was a thing either, except that even the vague notion of Liam being near his shared flat with Danny and Anthony sent his mind spiraling. Zayn closed his eyes and folded his arm across them, taking a long deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“Alright,” Liam said, his tone resigned, and he drew his hand away. Zayn was jostled a bit as Liam moved around, and when he peered out from under his arm, Liam was sat up against the headboard, holding his mug of tea in both hands, sipping from it.

“It’s not a thing,” Zayn murmured. He folded his arms across his chest and kept his gaze on the ceiling.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Zayn stayed quiet for a moment, recognizing his offered escape, tempted to take it. “I don’t know how to—explain.”

“How to explain what?”

“You.” Zayn felt his heart rate kick up, pounding hard in his chest, at his temples. “To my friends.”

Liam shifted a little, pausing before his reply. “Would you have to?”

Zayn hugged his chest tighter, his pulse still thumping uncomfortably. “Eventually, won’t I?”

“Maybe. I mean. I hope maybe you’d want to, one day. But that’s not what I’m asking right now.”

Zayn bit his bottom lip, considering what Liam said, continuing to study the ceiling. There was a hairline crack that ran from the corner that Zayn had only just noticed.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Liam asked.

“It’s a bit pointless, really, since you’ll just turn round and have to walk right back again, but.”

“I know that. I’ve always known that.”

Liam nudged Zayn’s hip with his foot, then reached across him to set his tea back on the table. Zayn pushed himself up partway, meeting Liam for a kiss on his way back. Liam shifted down to settle beside Zayn again, tucked up against Zayn’s side, half draped over him. Zayn grinned into the kiss at how easily they fit together, slightly askew on top of Liam’s bed, pressed close with their legs tangled. It was easier to move there than on the sofa, with the threat of gravity eliminated, to find out exactly how their hips could push and press and align, the rough rub of denim against denim heating quickly. Zayn went breathless in a hurry, gasping between heavy, unyielding kisses, rocking up against Liam, whining at the unmistakable drag of Liam’s cock against his own.

Zayn’s entire body went warm, the heat pooling with intensity at the base of his spine, every push of Liam’s tongue and grinding circle of his hips driving it further. He grabbed handfuls of Liam’s t-shirt, desperate and frantic, and Liam pushed himself up enough to reach up and over behind his head, rolling his shoulders forward to tug off his shirt in one swift go.

Zayn tried to catch his breath, running his tongue over his bruised lips, his gaze flickering over all of Liam’s newly exposed skin. Liam was breathing just as hard as Zayn, his chest expanding and contracting with it, Zayn’s stomach clenching at the sight of him as he leaned in again. Liam held himself up on his forearms, keeping some space between them as he kissed Zayn again, slower and more careful.

“Can I remove your shirt as well?” Liam muttered against Zayn’s lips, his voice sounding utterly wrecked.

Zayn nodded, fast and immediately. “Yeah—yes.”

“God, I really want to suck you off,” Liam said in a rush, and Zayn gasped, his cock twitching hard.

Liam kept himself propped up somewhat, even the pressure from his hips lifting, and it made Zayn squirm a bit, desperate. He ran his hands along Liam’s sides, to the small of his back, trying to pull him close again.

“Could I do that?” Liam asked in a near-whisper, his gaze wide-eyed and almost pleading, stunning Zayn into silence. “Would you let me? You wouldn’t have to do it back or anything. You can say no, too, if you want, it’s okay. I just—”

“No—”

“—really want to. No?”

“Yes, I mean, yes. Fuck.” Zayn had no idea what was funny but he nearly felt like laughing, closing his eyes as he smiled uncontrollably.

“Yes? Are you sure?”

Zayn blinked up at Liam, who was also smiling hugely then. Never in his entire life had Zayn been so giddy and excited and turned on at the same time.

“I’m sure, yeah.”

“Brilliant,” Liam declared, ducking to kiss Zayn again, a little unrefined in his haste and excitement. “I’ve imagined this quite a lot, as well.”

Zayn made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, kissing Liam again.

Liam helped Zayn out of his clothes, first his shirt then his jeans and socks, and Zayn tried not to seem too embarrassed at the way his cock tented his grey boxer briefs, a small sticky spot forming at the tip. Liam removed his own jeans as well, revealing a pair of blue boxer shorts, and as he settled over Zayn once more, Zayn’s breath hitched at the feel of Liam’s chest against his own. Liam kissed him once on the mouth, deep and thorough, before trailing wet presses of his lips down to Zayn’s throat, running his tongue along Zayn’s collarbones. Zayn wasn’t sure what to do with his hands; Liam kept moving downward and Zayn’s last nerve was buzzing in anticipation, sparking with every flicker of Liam’s tongue or slide of his mouth. Zayn grabbed fistfuls of Liam’s duvet and held on tightly.

When Liam reached Zayn’s hips he paused, lifting his gaze, and Zayn looked down, breathing like he’d been running. Liam nuzzled at Zayn’s cock through the fabric, nudging with his nose and his lips as his eyes fell shut, mouthing right over the tip, the sticky spot spreading wider. Zayn couldn’t stop the whining sound of surprise and pleasure that escaped him, breathing even harder afterward, all traces of embarrassment leaving him.

Liam pulled Zayn’s pants down carefully, stretching them down his hips and thighs and knees, tugging them off. Zayn had to close his eyes again, and parted his thighs slightly at the touch of Liam’s hands, quivering as Liam palmed at his skin.

“You look incredible,” Liam said, his voice low and awed.

Zayn took a shaky breath, exhaling in a rush, looking down at Liam again, and watched as Liam settled between his thighs. Liam’s lips met Zayn’s cock at the base, slick and open as they slid their way up the underside of his length, Liam’s tongue extending to lick broadly at the tip as he took Zayn into his hand. Liam shifted on the bed, curling even closer, holding Zayn’s cock with slow, firm strokes as he took it into his mouth.

Zayn whimpered, choking the sound back as he watched himself disappear entirely into the slick warmth of Liam’s mouth, Liam’s full lips stretched around him. Liam began slowly, patternless with the strokes of his hand and the slide of his mouth, eager little muffled sounds escaping. He kept glancing up at Zayn, his eyes dark and half-lidded in pleasure as he moved.

It was all Zayn could do to remain somewhat still, all of his senses overwrought, trembling with the effort not to push into Liam’s hand and mouth. The muscles in Zayn’s stomach clenched and Liam held on to Zayn’s hip with his free hand, thumb pressing hard against the ink-black heart to hold him there.

Liam pulled off with a wet sound to take a gasping breath, using his hand for a few full, tight strokes before taking Zayn into his mouth again. The sudden juxtaposition of the pressure and the way Liam pushed his tongue along the underside of Zayn’s cock when he took him back in brought Zayn dangerously close to coming; he barely managed to let go of the duvet in time to move his hand to Liam’s shoulder, tapping at it crudely as his breathing went uneven.

“I’m gonna—oh _fuck_ —”

Zayn toppled abruptly into his climax, tipping his head back against the pillow as he came, crying out in surprise as he pulsed into the wet warmth of Liam’s mouth over and over. Liam worked him through it, slowing his hand gradually, pulling off carefully to swallow. Zayn still had one hand at Liam’s shoulder, the other holding tight to the bedcovers, his pulse echoing hard in his ears, his head spinning.

Liam climbed right up over him while Zayn fought to catch his breath again, tucking his face against Zayn’s shoulder, briefly kissing his skin there. Zayn turned his face toward Liam, and when Liam’s mouth met his, Zayn whimpered, at the warm weight of Liam’s body over his own, and the strong taste of himself on Liam’s tongue. Zayn kept his eyes shut as Liam continued kissing him, feeling boneless and languid, chasing the kisses as they tapered.

Liam shifted a bit over him, the mattress dipping slightly to one side as he moved, lifting up to support his own weight but staying close. Zayn blinked his eyes open, meeting Liam’s gaze, watching as Liam’s breath hitched, his mouth falling open, still pink and slick. In his blissed-out haze it took Zayn a moment to realize the slight quivering movement that followed, to hear the soft ruffle of friction. He let his gaze drop, down between them to find Liam’s hand curled tight around the tip of his cock where he’d pulled it free of his boxers, jerking himself with short, quick strokes. Zayn reached in wordlessly, folding his hand fast around Liam’s and matching his frantic pace. Liam moaned and dropped his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder again, breathing hard and heavy onto Zayn’s skin.

“So close,” Liam said, his voice quiet and strained and breathless.

The angle was slightly awkward and Zayn’s wrist began to ache a little, but he carried on and watched in awe as Liam tensed and trembled, losing the rhythm of his hand as his hips rocked forward. Liam came hard with a sustained moan, keeping his face pressed against Zayn as he shot onto Zayn’s stomach in long, warm stripes, and trickled over their joined hands.

“Oh fuck,” Liam exclaimed, finally lifting his head, looking down. “Fuck.”

Zayn withdrew his touch and Liam inhaled sharply, but flashed a grin at Zayn before taking his hand, their slick messy fingers sliding together.

“That was so good,” Liam said, bringing Zayn’s hand to his mouth, running his tongue over the length of his fingers and between them, cleaning him up. “ _So_ good.”

Zayn watched, a little slack-jawed and fascinated, Liam’s come sliding gradually into the concave dip of his navel as Liam licked and sucked first Zayn’s fingers, and then his own. They finished cleaning up with some tissues from Liam’s bedside table, and then Liam settled against him again, head on Zayn’s shoulder and pressed snugly at his side. Zayn folded one arm loosely around Liam, shifting a little, fighting the flutter of restlessness that emerged with the quiet.

*

Everything about being at Liam’s fight made Zayn nervous, moreso even than he’d ever been for any of his own. He couldn’t quite pinpoint a solitary reason; there were contributing factors at every turn. The venue was another old warehouse, one that smelled of chemicals this time and littered with debris that had been cleared in a hurry, shoved toward the walls into haphazard piles. The crowd was thick and noisy and the circulation in the room was poor, leaving a dense haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Liam had Louis in the ring with him and Zayn stayed in the crowd, keeping back a few rows, anxiously gnawing on the edge of his thumbnail while he waited for the match to begin.

Liam’s opponent was slightly taller, with a stern beady-eyed glare that made Zayn furious just looking at him. Zayn easily imagined climbing right into the ring and taking him out before the fight even started, clenching his back teeth and his fists with the thought.

The buzzer sounded and the crowd around him shifted and swelled and Zayn was pushed closer, craning to see, finding a line of sight to watch Liam land a couple of hits. His opponent’s retaliation was swift, however, and Liam’s dodging and blocking were only just in time as he side-stepped and returned to his stance. The attacks kept coming, and as skilled as Liam was, he couldn’t quite manage to defend himself from all of them. Zayn winced each time Liam took a hit, his stomach swooping perilously, sickened further by the crowd’s enthusiastic reactions.

The fight remained more or less evenly matched, with both fighters tiring visibly as it progressed. Liam had taken a hard hit to his right side just as the final round began, and spent the last few minutes favoring it heavily, keeping his arm tucked close in defense. This left Liam with little opportunity to attack, and watching it unfold had Zayn beside himself, incensed and seething. He was ready to tear someone apart, all rational thought unraveling.

His impetuous rage was sidelined quickly though when his gaze landed on a familiar face at the opposite end of the room. Danny was stood there beside a tall, broad man Zayn had seen a few times before at other fights. They were half watching, half carrying on a conversation, talking directly into each other’s ears. The crowd was thick enough that Zayn was certain Danny hadn’t seen him yet, but he shifted aside slightly anyhow, hiding a little more behind some of the other spectators.

Just before the fight concluded, Zayn watched them slip off, heading toward his side of the room and threading through the crowd, and then he lost track of them entirely. The buzzer sounded and everyone began to move, leaving Zayn to frantically scan the shifting faces as they migrated around him. He flipped his hood up, keeping his head down, glancing over quickly to see Louis and Liam hurrying off to the back rooms. Zayn knew he couldn’t follow them and risk running into Danny. The crowd thinned quickly and Zayn filtered toward the exit with the group.

Once outside he lit a cigarette, moving away from the door but staying close to the building and lingering in the shadows. He fired off a quick text to Liam hoping he’d see it— _pick me up out front_ — and kept a careful eye on the dispersing crowd. Minutes ticked by and the flow of the exiting crowd dissipated. Neither Danny nor Liam appeared, and Zayn’s anxiety coiled tighter by the second. They were both likely in the bowels of the warehouse, maybe even in the same room at that moment. What if Liam mentioned his name? What if Danny heard it? Zayn watched his phone for the time almost constantly.

Finally the car rolled up, slowing near the entrance, and Zayn threw the end of his cigarette down, hurrying over. He climbed into the back, finding Liam slouched there, one arm draped across his middle. Louis sat in the front beside their driver.

“Why’d you go out through the front?” Louis asked.

“Dunno, habit,” Zayn mumbled, eyeing the driver warily, then turning his attention to Liam. “You alright?”

Liam nodded a little, but his brow was furrowed deeply in a frown, his breathing short and shallow. There was a small clean split in the corner of his lower lip, already puffy from swelling. “I will be,” he managed.

When they got in, Liam showered straight away, insistent on looking after himself alone, and Zayn fidgeted in the kitchen as he watched Louis open a package of biscuits and make some tea.

“He’s alright,” Louis said, passing Zayn a biscuit, biting into his own at the same time. “More upset that he lost, really.”

Zayn took the biscuit and frowned. He hadn’t even realized, in the confusion over seeing Danny, that Liam hadn’t won. Louis lined up three mugs on the counter and Zayn took a nibble out of the corner of his biscuit.

“He’ll use up all the hot water and then go pass out,” Louis continued. “But you should stay, I think he’d appreciate that.”

“D’you think he’ll want me to?”

Louis grinned a bit. “I basically guarantee it.”

Zayn took Liam’s tea to him, bringing a couple of biscuits as well. Liam was lying in bed on top of his blankets in a soft t-shirt and his boxers, but he wasn’t asleep yet. His face still bore the remnants of his fight, his bottom lip swollen and gashed, and his cheek puffy and pink. He was clean from his shower, the scent of soap and shampoo lingering in the room.

“Hi,” Zayn said quietly, depositing the snacks and mugs on the table and climbing onto the bed.

“Carefully,” Liam warned, lifting his hand a little. “Bruised a rib I’m pretty sure.”

“Shit,” Zayn frowned.

Liam sighed a little. “Yeah.”

Zayn stretched out on his side, facing Liam, curling up a little but not touching him. After a moment Liam slid his hand over, seeking Zayn’s, holding on to it loosely. Zayn stayed quiet, just stroking Liam’s hand with his thumb, watching his face. 

“Can I ask you something?” Zayn said softly.

“Sure, yeah,” Liam said, turning his head to meet Zayn’s gaze.

“Do you ever think about, like. Getting out?”

“Of fighting?”

“Yeah.”

“All the time.”

Zayn’s brow twitched slightly in confusion. “What’s stopping you, then? I mean, it’s decent pay, yeah, but you’re, like, proper trained and stuff.”

Liam closed his eyes a little longer than a blink, his mouth drawn into a solemn line.

“I don’t do it for money.”

Zayn hesitated just a bit before responding. “How do you mean?”

Liam cleared his throat a little, turning his gaze upward again. “I’m settling a debt.”

“What sort of—”

“It’s not my debt. It’s to do with a close mate of mine, or... well. I suppose he used to be.”

“So your mate owes someone money and you’re the one who has to fight.”

“Right, so.” Liam flickered his tongue over his angry lip. “Especially annoying when I don’t win.”

Zayn shifted a little closer. “How close are you to—you know. Being finished with it?”

“Not close enough to worry about it, sadly.”

Zayn frowned, letting the silence settle around them again. Liam closed his eyes, taking in a careful breath, letting it out slowly.

“I could wrap you,” Zayn offered. “Hurts at first but then it feels loads better.”

“Thanks, but. I’ll be alright.”

 

*

It was two nights later when Danny came in just before twelve, dropped a new eighth of weed on the sofa table, and took a seat beside Zayn, pressing close to him. Zayn shifted a little and kept his attention on the Top Gear marathon on the telly as Danny leaned forward and started to pack a bowl.

“This is some quality stuff I got us here,” Danny said.

Zayn hummed a bit in acknowledgement, shifting again to try to make some room between them.

“You’ve been out a lot,” Danny said, sniffing lightly. “You get another job or summat?”

“No.”

Danny finished packing the weed into the pipe in silence, and then passed it to Zayn with the lighter. Zayn took the first hit, inhaling deep, holding his breath as he passed it back to Danny.

It had been a while since Zayn smoked up, the forgotten drifty feeling returning by degrees, rounding out the sharp edges of his concerns. He and Danny passed in turns until the bowl was gone, and then Zayn reclined a little, slouching into the sofa, pinching his lower lip against his teeth as all the feeling drained away. He waved off another hit when Danny offered it to him, watching Danny take it instead, the click flash of the lighter and Danny’s hand curled around the end, sucking down the smoke.

Zayn didn’t move when Danny slouched beside him, tilting his head onto Zayn’s shoulder, pushing his knee and thigh firmly against Zayn’s. For a moment it was just comfortable; warm proximity that Zayn hadn’t yet figured out how to keep himself from craving. Even the placement of Danny’s hand onto his thigh was grounding at first, the reminder of a connection between them that had seemed to all but disappear. Zayn closed his eyes, having lost track of the television show without realizing, the droning of it buried beneath the sound of his own pulse and his breathing.

“Good, yeah?” Danny asked, his voice buzzing in Zayn’s mind.

Zayn nodded a little, swallowing lightly, and then Danny was kissing him, off-center and awkwardly at the corner of his mouth, his hand on Zayn’s thigh flexing somewhat, like a question. Zayn opened his eyes, and Danny moved to get a better angle, pushing his lips firmly against Zayn’s and lingering there.

Zayn took in a shaky breath through his nose, and everything was the weed and Danny and every almost-kiss in recent memory that Zayn had always wished had been real. He exhaled in a sigh that fought its way through his tightened airway, his throat constricting, and Danny crawled into Zayn’s lap with his knees bracketing Zayn’s hips like he hadn’t done since they were in sixth form.

Only Danny was taller now than he’d been then, and they didn’t fit anymore the way Zayn remembered, and he had to tip his head far back and stretch to reach him. Danny pushed the heel of his hand at Zayn’s crotch and pulled Zayn’s hand to his own at the same time, and for a fleeting moment Zayn paused, his jumbled fog of thoughts ricocheting around in his mind while Danny touched him and squeezed at Zayn’s hand to touch himself.

“Mmh?” Danny hummed against his mouth, pressing heavily with his hands and rubbing at Zayn’s length as it grew harder.

Zayn realized, then, that this would be it; this was the most they would ever manage to conjure up between them— the awkward re-enactment of foregone fumbled touches and the complete absence of words to describe them. Zayn reached in with both hands to undo Danny’s jeans, unsurprised when Danny was distracted enough by that to stop touching him altogether, bracing himself on the back of the sofa instead.

Zayn used both of his hands, used his tongue to make them slick, used the pace and grip he knew worked best, the way that made Danny tremble and tense and come apart quickly. Zayn covered the tip of Danny’s cock with his hand, catching the majority of the mess, sending it sliding back down into Danny’s pants.

Danny lingered for a moment afterward; his face close to Zayn’s but not quite touching, breathing hard and fast. Zayn stayed still, waiting until Danny moved to draw his hands back.

“Come to bed if you want,” Danny said, hurried and mumbled as he tucked himself back into his briefs with a wince.

Zayn swallowed, then shook his head a little, slowly. “S’alright.”

Danny met his gaze briefly, frowning, then shrugged and looked away. “Your choice.”

The sofa was jostled as Danny stood up, and Zayn waited until he heard the bathroom door shut before he went to clean his hands in the kitchen.

*

Zayn’s desire to make himself scarce from his flat increased sharply by the day. He met Liam in the early evening as he returned from lectures, and they stood side by side in the kitchen to make a feeble attempt at cooking dinner. They ended up with large bowls of pasta that they sprinkled generously with cheese and twirled onto forks in front of the telly, snickering together at rubbish sitcoms.

Liam fell asleep before Zayn even considered the idea of being tired, curled up warm and tucked against him, a blanket draped over them both. Zayn stayed nearly another hour, letting Liam be before waking him gently to send him to bed and setting off alone for home.

On his walk there, amidst his persistent recall of Liam’s sleepy, stubbly goodbye kisses, Zayn’s phone buzzed with a text. He expected it to be Liam, but it wasn’t. It was directives for his fight the next evening.

As he let himself into the flat, his airy mood already dashed considerably, he found Danny and Anthony sat in the front room, and the telltale ominous silence at his arrival meant they’d quickly ceased whatever discussion they’d been having.

“Hi, you alright?” Anthony said finally, his voice thin and uncertain.

“Fine, yeah,” Zayn said a little absently, and made his way to the bedroom.

There was a package on the bed, a paper shopping bag on its side with a box inside. Zayn looked back to find Danny was stood in the doorway, watching him. Across the hall, Zayn heard the other bedroom door click shut quietly, the sound of the television still drifting in from the front room.

“That’s for you,” Danny said, nodding toward the package on the bed.

Zayn frowned a bit. “Really?”

Danny rolled his eyes, stepping into the room, nudging the door shut behind him. “Go on, it’s not a big deal or nothing.”

Zayn carefully pulled the box from the paper bag and removed the lid, finding a brand new pair of trainers. They were black and grey and pristine, covered in thin white sugar paper. As he looked them over, fingertips tracing the detailing along the sides, he could only recall the rare excitement he’d felt years ago, back when a new pair of trainers would only happen once or twice a year if he were lucky. Stood there in the bedroom with Danny, though, Zayn just felt lost, the excitement from some other time existing like an imprint he could see and remember but not recreate.

“You don’t like them,” Danny said finally, his inflection not quite indicative of a question.

“No—I do, they’re really nice,” Zayn said, glancing over quickly. “Cheers.”

“I’ll return ‘em or whatever. Never mind.”

“What’s this about?” Zayn asked, watching as Danny sat on the corner of the bed, dropping down with a slight bounce. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets, slumped forward a bit, and Zayn had a sudden flashback of he and Danny waiting to see the school administrator when they’d gotten into trouble.

“I just saw them and I thought you’d like them.” Danny shrugged slightly.

Zayn tucked the lid back onto the box. “Just say what you gotta say to me, bruv.”

Danny met his gaze and Zayn waited, watching Danny’s mouth quirk into a frown, his knee jogging a bit.

“I gotta ask you somethin’,” Danny said finally. “A favour like.”

Zayn shifted, folding his arms. “Alright. Go on.”

Danny sniffed lightly, looking toward the window, then back at the floor. “You fight tomorrow, yeah?”

“Just found that out, yeah.”

Danny bit his lip slightly, and then let it go. “I need you to lose that fight for me.”

Zayn went still, a deep uneasiness creeping over him, and Danny finally looked up, his expression solemn.

“And when you do I’ll hook you up, like. Half what I’m getting. That’s way more than I got.”

Zayn’s heart thudded hard in his chest. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s dead simple, I’ll tell you exactly what to do, and when it’s all over—”

“No,” Zayn interjected loudly. “Absolutely not, no. The fuck are you thinking messing about like this—”

“I _need_ you to do this,” Danny shouted back, his face flushing in anger. “Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

“Jesus, Danny,” Zayn said in disbelief, his tone still sharp. “I’m not fuckin’ doin’ it, alright? End of.”

Danny sighed heavily in frustration. “Why not, though?”

“Because I don’t even want to fight anymore,” Zayn snapped.

“That’s brilliant, then—you go down tomorrow and then bow out forever. Do you even know what we could bring in if you do this?”

“I’m not doing it!”

“Fucking hell, Zayn, come _on_.” Danny looked up at him, his eyes wide, more desperate than angry. “I’m telling you, I need you, mate. I need you on this.”

“You don’t, though. You don’t need me.”

“You’re wrong.” Danny huffed out a sharp laugh, bitter, shaking his head. “You don’t even know how wrong.” He covered his face with his hands, curling forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Zayn’s chest tightened in sympathy. “Then fucking tell me,” he said quietly.

Danny’s hands slid down just enough to reveal his eyes and he looked up at Zayn. For a brief moment Zayn thought he might be on the verge of tears, but he dropped his hands away and his expression hardened.

“If you don’t do this for me, I’m fucked.”

Zayn’s imagination spun wildly with the possible implications of Danny’s statement. “Why? What’ll happen to you? Why can’t you just quit? Let’s just stop, mate. It’s not worth it.”

Danny rubbed at his face again, laughing humorlessly. He sighed, and stood up, turning away. “Fuck you for always being the smart one, yeah?” 

“Dan,” Zayn said, but Danny was already making for the door, pulling it open.

Zayn followed him into the front room, standing there as Danny collected his keys and his phone from the table.

“Danny.”

“Do what you have to do, Zayn,” Danny said, defeated, and left.

*

Anthony had to know what was happening with Danny, Zayn was certain. If he had any insight or opinion however, he was keeping it staunchly to himself, unusually stoic as he wrapped Zayn’s hands for him.

“Alright?” Anthony mumbled as he finished the first one, and Zayn flexed his fingers to make a fist.

“Yeah.”

They were alone for the moment in a small empty room, a single fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Anthony started to wrap Zayn’s other hand, stopping partway through and undoing his work to begin again, taking extra care to get it right. The noise of the crowd was barely audible on the other side of the wall, and Zayn studied Anthony’s face, his forehead creased in concentration.

“What happens to him if I win?” Zayn said, and Anthony looked up sharply, alarmed.

“Not here.”

“But I don’t know what to do,” Zayn said, hushed and quickly.

Anthony moved on to Zayn’s gloves, staying quiet as he laced them securely.

“Ant, c’mon,” Zayn muttered.

Anthony took Zayn’s face in his hands, touching their foreheads together. Zayn sighed, a futile attempt to dispel his nervous tension.

“Just make sure they believe it,” Anthony whispered, pulling back fast as the door opened.

“Time,” Paul announced.

Zayn nodded, taking another deep breath and stepping toward the door as he exhaled.

The room was smaller than Zayn expected, the makeshift ring at one end of an elevated platform. The spectators crammed around it on the floor, their heads barely at eye level with the floor of the ring. Paul led him through the crowd, shouldering a path, and Zayn looked around quickly, knowing Liam was there somewhere. He didn’t manage to spot him though, and to climb up to the ring level there was a vertical metal ladder. It was a bit dicey to navigate in his gloves, but Zayn managed, finding Danny waiting for him at the top.

Zayn tried not to look down, the elevation of his position and the sea of faces below making him dizzy when he did. He sat in his corner and let Danny insert his mouthpiece and concentrated on his breathing, counting seconds as he inhaled and exhaled, his heart racing wildly, burdened with indecision.

“Good luck,” Danny said, leaning in a little, generic and hollow.

Zayn touched his glove to Danny’s chest anyhow, grazing it slightly as Danny turned away.

Even as the buzzer sounded and the noise of the crowd swelled in Zayn’s ears and he held his arms up in defense, shuffling around his opponent, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He easily fended off the preliminary attacks, throwing a few test jabs, getting a feel for what he was up against. His rival looked young, his eyes wild with excitement, and Zayn guessed he was probably new, which meant the odds of him winning were probably not great. Zayn figured out fairly quickly, after landing a few hits, that it wouldn’t be easy to lose deliberately and make it look circumstantial.

The first round ended and Danny persisted in his detached silence, offering a towel and water without a word, barely meeting Zayn’s gaze for any of it. Zayn pushed his forehead against his arm, making his hair stand up a bit, and as he stood to return to the fight, he subtly nudged at Danny with his elbow on his way past.

There was no good way to get an inexperienced, inconsistent fighter to accurately land his punches, and Zayn’s efforts became a frustrating guessing game of sorts. He fought his inclinations, his instinct, and his training to put himself repeatedly in the line of fire, while still occasionally launching his own attacks. He had no idea how credible it appeared or not, and still had the nagging doubt at the back of his mind that whatever temporary assistance he was providing Danny in this charade would only be disastrous for them both in the long run.

At the second break, Danny leaned in, his hand curled tight around the back of Zayn’s neck, his mouth right against Zayn’s ear as he spoke.

“You’re better than this,” Danny said, his tone sad and resigned. “I always knew you were.”

Zayn pulled back and tried to stare at Danny to convey his confusion, but Danny refused to meet his gaze, chasing Zayn to lean in again.

“Go out the way you want. S’alright.”

Danny dropped his hand away and without another glance, ducked out of the ring, descending the platform ladder, leaving Zayn on his own.

As he made his way to the center of the ring again, he looked briefly for Anthony or Liam or anyone he recognized, but couldn’t find their faces in the shadowed crowd. With nothing holding him back anymore, Zayn caught his opponent off guard, launching immediately into a relentless attack in the wake of the buzzer. The crowd roared in approval and Zayn persisted, his punches and jabs causing his rival to retreat, both of them drifting gradually toward the front of the ring, where the ropes were strung taut at the very edge of the elevated platform.

Zayn took a step back, conscious of their proximity to the boundary, the noise from the crowd growing louder still. When his opponent stayed in place, though, Zayn lunged forward again, going for a right hook, missing by a hair as his opponent slipped out of the trajectory.

He stumbled slightly, his balance faltering, the rope barrier flying rapidly toward him. Zayn reached out to attempt to grab it, to catch himself, when a sudden blow behind his ear sent him careening, reaching back to protect his head and reeling into the barrier. Instead of stretching the way it should have, the top rope snapped instantly, and Zayn tumbled right over before he realized what had happened, falling head first to the floor below, crashing into the concrete at the front of the crowd.

At first Zayn thought he was fine. He’d landed on his right side and everything hurt; his ears were ringing and adrenaline raced hotly through his veins. He rolled onto his back and he tried to sit up slowly, but decided to wait another moment. A semi-circle of people gathered around to stare at him, mumbling to one another, but no one stepped forward to help. Then there was a commotion, shouting and shoving, and Paul appeared, then Liam with Louis right behind him. Everyone spoke at once, all of them crouching down around him, and Zayn caught only snippets of commands and questions flung at him— can you move, don’t move, can you hear me, did you hit your head?

“I’m fine,” he managed, but the pain in his shoulder grew suddenly intense, a fierce burst of it shooting down the length of his arm when he tried to move it from where it was folded against his chest.

The other arm was better, though, and he pushed himself up partway with it, awkward with his glove still on, and then looked down, carefully moving each of his legs.

“I think I’m fine,” he said again. “Help me up.”

“No,” Paul insisted as Liam reached to take Zayn’s arms. “You’re not fine—look at your shoulder.”

Zayn lowered his gaze, finding his right arm jutting down awkwardly, unnaturally from his shoulder, the curve of it now a sharp point.

“Fuck,” Zayn said, panicked, and tried to move his arm instinctually, the severe shooting pain flaring again, white hot and deep down to his elbow. He cringed and groaned in agony when it didn’t subside again.

“It’s dislocated,” Paul said. “Don’t try to move it. Keep it held against you like that,” he explained. “We need to go to hospital straight away.”

The ride to A&E was excruciating, even with Liam half holding him in the backseat, every bump and turn augmenting the constant pain in Zayn’s arm, making him woozier by the minute. Liam quickly but carefully removed Zayn’s gloves, murmuring continual reassurances to him, reminding him to breathe, and removed his hoodie to drape it over Zayn’s good shoulder, covering him against the cold. In the front seat, Louis sent Harry a series of frantic messages.

They arrived and Paul helped them inside; it wasn’t until they were brought to an examination room and Zayn was assisted to lie down, supported by multiple pillows to make him as comfortable as possible, that he realized Paul was gone. The pain in his shoulder grew steadily, more intense than anything he’d ever endured, and it took an immense amount of effort just to keep breathing. Liam stayed right at his side while several nurses took his vitals and asked him to repeat what had happened over and over again and examined his right arm and shoulder. When Liam took his left hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly, it didn’t occur to Zayn to do anything except squeeze back.

Harry showed up looking a little flustered, but his tone was calm and even.

“Hi—sorry it took me a bit, it’s mental in here tonight,” he explained, leaning closer to have a good look at Zayn’s shoulder. “Wow, yeah, that must be pretty uncomfortable. We’re short one doctor right now but I’ll do what I can to get you sorted soon, alright?”

Zayn nodded a bit, biting his lip, and Liam and Louis talked over one another to thank him.

A woman in a doctor’s coat burst in, her long hair fastened into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. “Harry,” she said frantically. “Room four, now.”

“Right away, Dr. Flack,” Harry replied, but she was already gone again. “I’ll send something in for the pain, okay? Just hold on,” Harry promised as he rushed out.

The fond grin on Louis’ face made Zayn’s stomach flutter a little, distracting him; Zayn recognized too well the kind of smitten reverie Louis was in. He turned his gaze to Liam, who raised an eyebrow, searching Zayn’s face.

“You alright?” Liam asked softly.

“Aside from this arm thing.”

Liam grinned. “Aside from that.”

“Yeah.”

Liam’s hoodie was still draped over him, and Liam tugged at it a bit, tucking it closer to keep Zayn warm, keeping a tight hold of his hand.

One of the nurses from before returned with a strong painkiller and ice to curtail the swelling, explaining again how busy and understaffed they were and that the doctor would be in as soon as possible. The initial cold pressure from the icepack caused Zayn to tense and clench his teeth, squeezing harder at Liam’s hand, biting back a whimper. Once the numbness began to set in, though, it did start to feel slightly better.

Harry came back in after a quarter of an hour, with a flurry of apologies again. Zayn’s painkillers were kicking in and his arm still hurt like it was being torn off, which technically it kind of was, but he felt floaty and far more relaxed than when he’d seen Harry minutes before.

“We can continue to wait for the doctor if you’d like,” Harry began. “But I know how to reset this myself, if you trust me to give it a go.”

“Are you sure?” Liam asked, concerned.

“I’ve done it before,” Harry said.

“Yeah, go on, then,” Zayn said, his words running together a little more than he expected.

Harry explained how he’d be holding and moving Zayn’s arm to attempt to ease it back into place before he even stepped up to turn the blankets down and set the ice pack aside.

“It’s going to hurt. A lot,” Harry emphasized, positioning himself at Zayn’s side. “Just try to breathe, okay?”

Zayn nodded in understanding, and Harry had barely begun to lift Zayn’s wrist from his chest when Zayn cried out sharply in pain, panting hard.

“I know,” Harry mumbled, frowning, continuing to move Zayn’s arm slowly, keeping his elbow bent. “You’re doing good. Just breathe.”

“Fuck,” Zayn whined, squeezing his eyes shut and choking back another cry as Harry began to slowly rotate his arm.

“It’s alright, you can curse at me, I can take it,” Harry said with a little grin, and behind him, Louis chuckled.

Liam’s hand shook slightly where Zayn was clenching it in a vice grip, and Liam lowered his forehead to the pillow beside Zayn’s good shoulder, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“Don’t you pass out on me, Liam,” Harry warned.

“Oh god, trying not to,” Liam said, his words muffled.

Zayn’s shoulder and arm were coiled hot with consuming pain, pushed on by Harry’s maneuvering, the slow rotation seemingly endless.

“Nearly there,” Harry said, increasing the pressure even further, and Zayn cried out sharply again just before a deep, audible jolt jarred him out of it, his shoulder slipping back into place.

The pain was drastically reduced in an instant; he still ached but it was dull and distant and tolerable. He attempted to flex his elbow and Harry kept hold of him.

“Hang on. Not yet.”

“Feels better, though. Loads better.”

Liam lifted his head. “Is it over?”

Harry set Zayn’s arm carefully on his chest again. “The doctor will want to see you, but. That should basically do it.”

“That was absolutely wicked,” Louis marveled, beaming.

Liam set his head down again, still looking a bit pale.

“Louis, you should get Liam some sugar from the vending machines,” Harry said, patting Liam’s head lightly. “I’ll drop back in to say bye if I can.”

“Cheers, Harry,” Zayn said, his eyes starting to get heavy.

“Yeah, cheers Hazza, owe you one,” Liam added.

“No worries,” Harry said on his way out.

Louis went to find Liam a snack and Zayn closed his eyes, the adrenaline from the ordeal wearing off, and the effects of the painkillers setting in heavily. Liam gave his hand another squeeze and then pressed a tender kiss to Zayn’s cheek, a soft warm brush of his lips.

The doctor eventually arrived, and she ordered X-rays and examined Zayn thoroughly and didn’t ask too many questions about the cause of his injury. She sent him off with more painkillers, his arm in a sling, and requisite follow-up orders for several days later. By the time Zayn and Liam were sat in the lobby with Louis, waiting for the taxi they ordered, Zayn was exhausted. He leaned heavily against Liam, who held him close and carefully, nuzzling affectionately at Zayn’s hair.

At the sound of his name echoing like a question in the otherwise quiet lobby, Zayn lifted his head. Anthony and Danny were walking toward him, Anthony carrying his rucksack.

“Zayn,” Danny repeated, hurrying the final few steps. “Thank fuck you’re alright.”

Through the haze of his weariness and the painkillers, Zayn panicked a bit, righting himself to pull away from Liam, and then tried to stand up too quickly, swaying perilously as his head spun.

“Whoa—hey—” Danny said, reaching out to steady him, while Liam did the same.

“Easy,” Liam murmured.

“Yeah, sit down, it’s alright,” Danny said, and Zayn lowered himself again into the seat. “You are alright, aren’t you? Paul told us you were here but no one would let us back to see you on account of we’re not related.”

“’M fine,” Zayn muttered, growing more uncomfortable by the second, his thoughts and reactions impeded by the medication.

“Hi, Liam Payne,” Liam said, standing up and offering Danny his hand.

Danny blinked down at Liam’s hand for a moment, and then took it briefly and awkwardly, dropping his own away quickly. 

“I’m Danny, that’s Ant, thanks for looking after him.” Danny reached out to help Zayn up and Zayn went still.

“Erm—” Liam looked down at Zayn. “Oh. Are you—did you want—?”

“Zayn?” Danny asked in confusion. “Let’s go home, c’mon.”

“I…” Zayn started, but he was unsure what he even wanted to say.

“Taxi’s here,” Louis announced, standing up and making his way out through the doors.

Anthony slowly stepped closer, setting Zayn’s rucksack down beside him.

“C’mon, Dan,” Anthony said quietly, curling a hand at Danny’s elbow. “He’s going with them.”

“He can make up his own mind,” Danny insisted, sounding a bit lost, letting his arm drop slowly.

“I’ll be going with them,” Zayn said, his voice a little shaky, and Ant nodded. “Thanks for bringing my things.”

“Call us, yeah?” Ant said, nudging at Danny again to lead him away.

Zayn nodded as Danny took a couple of slow, reluctant steps in retreat before turning suddenly, walking away without looking back.

*

When he woke up in Liam’s bed, it took Zayn a moment to realize where he was, and then to remember everything that had happened. He’d slept so soundly that he nearly forgot about his arm, flinching as he began to move it too quickly, the dull, persistent ache still present in his shoulder. Zayn was alone, the curtains drawn tightly to keep the daylight out. The clock on Liam’s bedside table informed him it was mid-afternoon.

Zayn got up slowly, confused for a split second at the t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing before recalling how Liam had helped him into them before he’d gotten into bed. He shuffled to the loo, hindered slightly by having to use his left hand for doorknobs and handles and everything else. After washing his hands, he splashed a bit of water on his face and stole a bit of toothpaste, pushing it around on his teeth with his finger.

When he opened the door again, Liam was stood there in socked feet, dark skinny jeans and a half-zipped red hoodie, the scooped neck of a white t-shirt visible beneath it.

“Hi. You’re awake,” he said, smiling fondly; it sent something electric right through Zayn. “How are you feeling? Did you need anything?”

Zayn bit the corner of his lip. “Glass of water, maybe?”

“Sure, yeah,” Liam said, and Zayn followed him to the kitchen, watching the flex of his thighs and his backside as he walked. “I’ve just been revising but I could use a break probably. You can go back to sleep if you’d like though, or whatever you want to do really.” 

Liam took a glass from the cabinet and held it under the tap, and Zayn pressed himself against Liam’s back, keeping his right arm folded between them, sliding his other one low around Liam’s waist. Liam was warm and smelled fresh and a bit powdery, like fabric softener, and the hood that sat between his shoulders made a perfect pillow for Zayn’s cheek. He gave Liam a little squeeze, ignoring the way his shoulder twinged in protest at the pressure.

Liam slid his hand from Zayn’s wrist to his elbow, his voice going quieter. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”

“Come back to bed,” Zayn said, his fingers curling slowly against the front of Liam’s hoodie.

“Erm—” Liam turned his head a bit, trying to peer over his shoulder. “I still have quite a bit of revising, but—”

“Just for a bit,” Zayn murmured.

“Yeah? Okay.”

Zayn brushed his fingers against the button on Liam’s jeans as he pulled his arm away.

He made sure to close the door after they entered Liam’s room, and waited until Liam had set the glass of water on the bedside table, catching the sleeve of his hoodie when Liam turned to reach for the curtains.

“Leave it.”

“Oh, I thought—” Liam said, and Zayn stepped in close again, this time pinching the pull of the zipper at Liam’s chest, easing it downward. “ _Oh_ ,” Liam repeated.

Zayn breathed in, a little shaky as Liam’s hoodie parted, placing his hand against Liam’s t-shirt at the center of his chest, sliding it toward his shoulder. Zayn lifted his gaze and Liam leaned in, catching his mouth in a kiss, his hand fitting to Zayn’s cheek, palming it tenderly.

Liam pulled back as Zayn started to tug at his hoodie, easing it down over his shoulders.

“Hey... are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Zayn nodded without hesitation, chasing another kiss. “I’m sure, yeah—”

Liam moaned quietly into Zayn’s mouth through another kiss, tugging at Zayn’s lower lip lightly with his teeth, sliding his free hand against Zayn’s lower back. When Liam pulled back again, it was to shrug his hoodie off in a hurry, letting it fall to the floor, both of his hands returning to hold Zayn’s face for another kiss.

Zayn tugged at Liam’s belt loop, guiding him toward the bed, pausing to grab a handful of Liam’s t-shirt, pushing it up to get his hand beneath it. He palmed at Liam’s skin, against the slight contours and taut planes of his abs and chest, a small needy sound escaping the corner of Zayn’s mouth. He was already hard, his cock straining against the front of the sweatpants he was wearing, and as Liam took a half step back to lift his shirt off, Zayn pushed and tugged awkwardly at the waistband, trying to work them down his hips using only his nearly useless left hand.

“Hang on—let me help,” Liam said, taking over, slipping the material downward and stretching it over Zayn’s cock. He folded his hand around it as it sprung free, the sweatpants falling to Zayn’s ankles.

Liam stroked him slowly with a loose grip, his thumb brushing the underside of Zayn’s length, and Zayn still flushed all over with a groan, reaching for the button on Liam’s jeans with a shaky hand. Liam brought his face close to Zayn’s, their foreheads touching, sliding his other hand against Zayn’s cheek again.

“How should we—erm. How will you be most comfortable?”

Zayn only whimpered a little in reply, the slow, smooth drag of Liam’s hand around him making him shudder, hindering his ability to focus.

“I could get on my knees for you,” Liam added.

Zayn shook his head a little, working his hand into Liam’s jeans, pushing the zipper open, squeezing at Liam’s cock through his briefs.

Liam moaned softly, his grip on Zayn going tighter. “No?”

Zayn’s breath hitched, and he pushed his hand in deeper, frustrated at only having one to work with and restricted by the tightness of the denim. He closed his eyes and Liam kept touching him, palming the head of his cock and stroking his cheek at the same time.

“Tell me what you—”

“Fuck me,” Zayn interjected, the words falling out of him. “I want—”

It was Liam who interrupted then, capturing Zayn’s mouth in a hard, deep kiss, groaning into it, nudging Zayn another step back toward the edge of the bed.

Zayn kicked his sweatpants away as he went, and Liam broke the kiss to quickly push his jeans and underwear down and off, stepping out of them. Zayn let Liam help him out of his t-shirt, working it off carefully and slowly, making sure to keep his right arm as stationary as possible. It was still uncomfortable and awkward and Zayn cringed a little, biting back a low, quiet groan at having to roll his shoulder slightly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Liam frowned.

“Yeah,” Zayn said, his voice a bit strained, rubbing idly at his arm as it throbbed.

Liam curled a hand at Zayn’s hip, his gaze flickering down over Zayn’s body.

“C’mon, let’s lie down.”

Zayn was a little relieved at the directive, climbing carefully into Liam’s bed and reclining against the pillows. Liam crawled right up over him, taking extra care to stay clear of Zayn’s shoulder, propping himself on his forearms, his knees bracketing Zayn’s thighs. He leaned in and kissed Zayn again, shorter this time, his gaze dropping briefly to Zayn’s mouth as he pulled away. Liam settled in, his lower half fitting heavily against Zayn’s, warm weight and Liam’s cock pressed tight against his own. Zayn sighed at the sensation, lifting his hips to it. 

“Have you done this before?”

“Yeah,” Zayn said immediately, trying not to sound affronted.

“I’m only asking,” Liam said reasonably, trailing kisses against Zayn’s neck. Zayn tilted his head a little as Liam nudged at his chin.

“Not, like. Much,” Zayn admitted, his eyes falling shut as Liam sucked lightly at the skin below his jaw.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Liam murmured, lingering with another press of his lips before looking up again to meet Zayn’s gaze.

Zayn blinked up at him then lifted his head a little, stretching for a kiss.

“You’ll tell me, yeah?” Liam said, meeting Zayn’s lips, sliding his own against them. 

Zayn nodded and Liam kissed him deeply, rocking his hips with a groan, then pushed himself up, reaching and leaning over to the drawer of the bedside table. Liam sat back and rearranged himself, nudging Zayn’s legs apart to settle on his knees between them. Zayn drew one knee up as he parted his thighs and made room for Liam, his face flaring with heat as he watched Liam look at him, gazing right at Zayn’s balls and his cock where it rested thick and rigid on his lower belly, against the dark patch of hair. He fought the urge to cover himself, his hands twitching a little with it, and quickly rubbed at his face instead.

“You okay?” Liam asked, flipping open the cap on the lube, squeezing a generous amount into his palm and closing his fingers over it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn replied, and then inhaled deeply, exhaling slow as he blinked up at the ceiling.

Liam spent a long moment just slowly stroking Zayn’s thigh with his free hand, his thumb pushing against the tendon at the upper inside, long enough that Zayn looked down finally, curious.

“What?” Zayn’s heart thudded harder in his ears.

Liam grinned a little, crookedly, almost shy. “You’re very attractive, I enjoy looking at you.”

Zayn blushed completely at that, first bringing his arm up to fold it over his eyes, then sliding it back to rest on the pillow, turning his face partly toward his elbow but flicking his gaze to Liam again.

“Plus the lube was really cold,” Liam smiled. “And that’s just no fun for anyone, really.”

Zayn bit his lip against a grin; Liam’s easy candor was simultaneously disarming and unnerving and so divergent from all of Zayn’s previous experience.

Liam finally brushed the back of his closed hand along the sensitive skin below Zayn’s balls, his knuckles bumping against them, making Zayn breathe a little faster. Liam kept his gaze cast downward to watch, his other hand still squeezing at Zayn’s thigh, gentle pressure to hold his legs open.

Liam’s slick, blunt fingers slid their way between Zayn’s cheeks, seeking out and finding his hole, liberally spreading the lube over it. Zayn held his breath and closed his eyes at how good it felt, just Liam’s fingers gliding against him, his hips shifting a bit as he exhaled in a rush.

Then there was pressure there, steady but slow, Liam’s fingertip wriggling slightly as Zayn’s body yielded to it. Liam pushed his finger in carefully, knuckle by knuckle, dragging it back out partway to press it in again. Zayn’s breath hitched and he pushed his face harder against his upper arm, the beginnings of a moan getting caught in his throat as he concealed it out of habit.

Liam turned his wrist slightly, tipping more of the lube from his palm over his fingers, slowly adding another alongside the first. The increase in the stretch was sharp, and Zayn took a quick breath in, biting his lower lip to hold it. Liam worked his two fingers in completely, keeping them still and stroking Zayn’s thigh again until he exhaled.

Liam hummed quietly, low and gratified, slowly starting to slide his fingers out and back in, each time a little further, falling into a steady rhythm. Zayn looked down again when Liam’s other hand disappeared fast from Zayn’s thigh, watching as Liam grabbed hold of himself, folding his fist around the base of his cock and pumping it a couple of times.

It was nearly too much, the visual of Liam touching himself, the firm slide of his fingers and the wet, quiet sounds they made. Zayn breathed hard and heavily, tipping his hips up with a groan as his cock twitched against his belly.

Liam curled and turned his fingers as he continued pumping them, working Zayn open even more. He folded himself forward, releasing his cock to plant his hand on the duvet beside Zayn, leaning in to press a kiss high on his belly, on the soft spot just below his ribcage. Liam tipped his forehead to rest it there, his breathing just as labored as Zayn’s, warm as he exhaled over Zayn’s skin. Zayn’s injured arm rested against his chest, just close enough to place his hand to the top of Liam’s head, Liam’s short hair prickly to the touch.

Zayn felt Liam’s third finger nudge its way into him, pushing slow and easing past the resistance, joining the movement of the others. Zayn squirmed a little as Liam nipped and kissed at his belly, barely-there scrapes of his teeth that set Zayn’s nerves alight, making him push his hips down onto Liam’s hand, provoking small whimpers he failed to contain.

Liam’s kisses traveled up Zayn’s chest, one of them dropping on the back of Zayn’s hand, until he lifted up to meet Zayn’s gaze.

“Good? More?” Liam asked, a little breathless, searching Zayn’s face.

“Good,” Zayn replied.

Liam sat back again, drawing his fingers out and away, and Zayn took a shaky breath, shifting on the pillow, wincing a little at the sharp pang in his shoulder as he moved. Liam rolled a condom on, slicking himself with more lube, and then leaned over Zayn again, meeting his gaze. He lowered and rearranged himself between Zayn’s legs, pushing at the back of Zayn’s knee to bring their hips together, and used his hand to guide his cock in. The tip nudged thick and slippery for a moment against Zayn before pushing in tight, stretching him harder.

Zayn alternated between holding his breath and panting heavily as Liam gradually entered him, overwhelmed with being folded beneath Liam’s weight and the thick stretch of Liam’s cock. Liam held himself up on his hands and went slow, groaning as he looked down between them, going still when he pressed completely inside of him. He looked up at Zayn.

Liam’s cheeks were flushed and his mouth parted slightly, his brow creased in pleasure as he rocked his hips the tiniest bit, shifting his weight, pressed as tight as possible against Zayn.

“Okay?” Liam asked, nearly a whisper.

Zayn nodded, sliding his hand along the contour of Liam’s shoulder, curling it around the back of Liam’s neck. Liam dropped his gaze again as he drew his hips back slowly, then pushed in deep and tight with a groan.

“God,” Liam said, awed, pulling back again.

Zayn’s pulse raced wildly, the burn of the stretch still lingering as Liam moved. Each time he shifted forward, leaning heavily against Zayn’s hips, Zayn’s shoulder flared in protest, the pressure and movement causing it to ache intensely. Zayn grasped tightly to the back of Liam’s neck and tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on the feel of Liam moving inside him, the way he looked as he thrust into Zayn over and over, the flex of his abs as he rolled his hips.

It worked for a couple of minutes, until Liam ducked in quickly for a kiss and changed the pace, moving even harder and faster. Zayn cried out sharply, cringing hard and writhing involuntarily, his stomach clenching as his shoulder and arm throbbed deeply. Liam stopped immediately, alarmed, lifting up and pulling out as he went still.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Zayn took a few harsh breaths, trying to calm himself, tugging at Liam and lifting his hips.

“No, don’t—don’t stop, I’m alright—”

“Is it too much? Hey—”

Liam leaned in and kissed him, slow and thorough, lingering through Zayn’s panicked breathing until it slowed somewhat, the ache in Zayn’s shoulder starting to fade.

“What is it?” Liam asked, his brow furrowed in worry. “Is it your shoulder, or?”

“Shoulder, yeah,” Zayn said. “I don’t want to stop, though.”

Liam kissed him again, quicker. “I have an idea.”

Zayn bit at his lower lip a little. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Liam hummed in reply, already starting to shift a bit, leaning closer and drawing his knees up under himself. “Hold on to me.”

Zayn folded his left arm around Liam’s shoulders, and Liam slid an arm beneath Zayn’s lower back, until they were pressed close.

“Hold tight,” Liam said, and lifted Zayn smoothly, fully up into his lap as he sat back on his heels.

Zayn clung tightly to Liam as Liam’s arms slid around him easily, fully encircling Zayn’s middle, warm and encompassing. Liam dropped a kiss onto Zayn’s good shoulder as they fit together and then held him snugly, long enough to subdue Zayn’s franticness.

“Better?” Liam asked.

“Loads,” Zayn said, and it was true; his shoulder was much improved, the dull ache a distant one that faded further as Liam continued to kiss him, along the side of his neck and up to his mouth.

Zayn shifted around in Liam’s lap, rocking his hips as they kissed, moaning a little as the urgency of his desire returned. Liam slid one hand down Zayn’s back to squeeze at his arse, sliding the tip of a finger inside him. Zayn gasped and pushed back against it, whimpering quietly into Liam’s mouth.

Liam groaned desperately, deepening the kiss, trying to curl his finger further into Zayn, biting at Zayn’s lips and breathing hard.

“I want you so badly,” Liam muttered against Zayn’s mouth, and then kissed his chin and his throat as Zayn kept shifting restlessly.

“Liam,” Zayn whined, clenching hard at Liam’s shoulders, trying to lift himself enough to get Liam’s cock under him. “C’mon, Liam.”

Liam kept a tight hold of Zayn with one arm, using his other to reach between them, tilting his hips and holding his cock to position it properly, aligning it beneath Zayn. Zayn breathed even quicker at the feel of Liam pushing against him, his body easily giving way, sinking down as he let Liam in.

They moaned simultaneously, Zayn’s thighs quivering as he held still, his breathing matching Liam’s. Liam brought his hand up, sliding it against Zayn’s cheek, and Zayn blinked his eyes open to meet Liam’s.

Liam began moving slowly, sorting out how to shift his hips and how to keep hold of Zayn, supporting him in rising and falling as they worked out a rhythm. Zayn kept a tight hold of Liam’s shoulders, keeping his gaze locked to Liam’s.

“So good,” Liam said, hushed and strained, starting to move a little faster. “You feel so good.”

Zayn could feel the hot coiling of his climax as it began, the distant suggestion of it starting, growing in minute increments each time he sank onto Liam’s cock. Liam’s hand slipped from Zayn’s face to his hip, then down his thigh, sliding back up to slip between them, seeking out Zayn’s cock, folding around it.

Zayn immediately lost all rhythm of his movement, even his breathing going erratic as Liam touched him.

“Oh—” Zayn blurted out, scrambling to keep moving, returning to the pattern of Liam’s thrusting. “Oh, fuck.”

Liam licked into Zayn’s mouth and Zayn struggled to catch his breath, Liam’s hand around him moving firm and fast and bringing the promise of his orgasm quickly to the forefront. Zayn choked on a whimper, Liam’s tongue still filling his mouth, his blunt nails digging into Liam’s shoulder. Liam’s arm flexed tighter around him and Zayn lost himself entirely, his body fixed seamlessly to Liam’s, his climax crashing over him. He shuddered intensely with it, his mouth still pressed to Liam’s, falling open in a sustained moan as he came, shooting onto Liam’s stomach and his own as Liam stroked him through it.

Liam held on to Zayn and kept moving, clutching tightly as he bucked his hips, following right after with a harsh groan into Zayn’s shoulder, Liam’s cock pulsing hard inside him.

*

Aside from stopping in to retrieve some of his things, Zayn didn’t return to his flat, and instead spent the following week at Liam’s. The run up to the weekend brought ugly, unseasonable winter weather, the temperatures dropping and the snow piling up as the wind whipped relentlessly.

Zayn didn’t especially want to go to Niall’s fight; his shoulder was much better but still in a sling and the weather was shit and he would have rather stayed in, but Liam told Niall he’d be there, and Liam could always be counted on. 

They arrived at the location and left Niall in the back area, wandering out to the crowd, and immediately Zayn felt something was off. The crowd was sparse, which could have been attributed to the weather, but there was a tension and a stillness in the room that made him uneasy and restless. Liam seemed oblivious, tapping away at his phone while they waited, but as the room filled up a little more, Zayn tried to sort out what unnerved him.

The start time came and went, five minutes past, and then ten. Again Zayn thought maybe it was a weather thing, maybe more people were meant to show, or maybe one of the fighters was delayed. As it neared fifteen minutes past start time, Zayn knew something was wrong, and looking up he saw Paul approaching them at a fast clip, weaving through the crowd.

“Come on, come on, go,” Paul said, hushed and urgently, not slowing in the slightest, pushing Zayn and Liam in front of him toward the back of the building.

Zayn knew better than to argue, knew to keep his mouth shut and to do what Paul said, but Liam didn’t, sputtering questions along the way and slowing them down until Paul grabbed his arm and told him to shut the fuck up.

They were so close— _so_ close to the exit door in the back corner, and then chaos erupted, a stream of uniform-clad men pouring in, shouting and running at them. Paul changed course in a heartbeat, leading Liam and Zayn along through the commotion of the scattering crowd, pushing them through a side door, bolting it shut once they were through.

There was a long corridor and Zayn full out ran with no idea where he’d end up, with Liam and Paul right behind him. Halfway down, Paul shouted to turn and Zayn skidded to a halt, turning down another long passageway, breathing hard. He heard sirens in the distance and the passageway ended in a staircase; the only way to go was up.

At the top of two flights, Paul pushed through a door to the right, beyond which was a fire door, marked in bright red to warn of an alarm. Paul pushed right through it anyway and the piercing alarm shrieked immediately as the three of them stepped out onto an iron balcony overlooking a narrow snow-filled alley. Zayn looked around quickly and spotted a ladder descending from one side; but it ended in mid-air only halfway to the ground.

“Right,” Paul shouted over the clanging alarm, turning to Liam. “You first. Climb down, hang from the bottom, and drop. It’s only a few meters, go.”

“I’m not jumping!” Liam protested.

“Fucking go!” Paul yelled, pushing at him. 

Zayn watched as Liam lowered himself on the partial ladder until he was hanging from the bottom rung, his feet dangling toward the ground.

“Drop!” Paul shouted, and Liam let go, falling with his eyes closed, landing on his feet but falling back onto his bum.

He stood right up and looked up, and Zayn began to make his way down the ladder. When he got to the bottom he only had one arm to work with, hanging there for a long moment as Paul shouted at him to let go, terrified of landing again on his shoulder. Finally Zayn opened his hand, the ice-cold rung of the ladder slipping away, and dropped.

The impact was jarring, but manageable, and Liam was there to help him up. They both looked up again, and Paul yelled at them to run as two officers on the balcony overtook him.

*

_Spring_

It was the first warm-enough day that Zayn probably could have foregone his leather jacket, the bright mid-morning sun making him squint a little as he walked along the familiar footpath beside the river. He kept his hands in his pockets, though, the air still retaining a slight crispness that wouldn't wear off until afternoon, if at all.

As he approached the viaduct that supported the bridge above, he shielded his eyes, and then they came into view: a dozen or so people in bright orange community service jumpsuits, diligently scrubbing the graffiti from the concrete structure. Zayn picked up the pace of his step, checking the time on his phone as he approached.

When he drew nearer, Danny spotted him, making his way over and meeting Zayn out of earshot of the rest of the group.

“Hi, you alright?” Zayn asked, pulling a small paper sack from inside his jacket, handing it over to Danny.

“Yeah, good, thanks. How are you? Oh, brilliant, sausage biscuit?”

“Sausage biscuit. Drank the coffee already, though, s’bloody early.”

“Wanker,” Danny teased, unwrapping his breakfast sandwich and taking a bite. “Want any?” 

“Nah, I’ve got breakfast waiting for me.”

Zayn tucked his hands in his pockets and Danny ate in silence for a long moment.

“How’s all that?” Danny asked finally.

“It’s good, you know,” Zayn replied. “Pancakes.”

“Pancakes, hm?”

Zayn smiled a bit, looking away. “Yeah.”

*

Zayn let himself into the flat, the bright laughter of Louis and Niall greeting him from the front room, then a chorus of _Zaaaaaayn_ from them and Harry as he entered.

“You lot are way too cheerful in the morning.”

“Sorry, Niall couldn’t wait any longer so we ate already,” Harry explained. “But your pancakes are still in the oven.”

Liam came through the kitchen door with an equally chipper grin. “Oh good, you’re back. How was it?”

Zayn shrugged off his jacket, hung it up, and followed Liam back through to the kitchen.

“It was good—” Zayn paused, noticing two place settings at the table. “You didn’t have to wait for me, Li.”

“I know, but I did,” Liam said, pouring a cup of coffee for Zayn and a mug of tea for himself. “Looks warm outside. Is it warm?”

“Not yet,” Zayn said, loading his plate with pancakes, then making one for Liam with a smile. “Getting there, though.”


End file.
